It doesn’t hurt anymore.
In the initial stages, every sad song made sense, and every tea-house would haunt. Waking up without that text message, sleeping without listening to that voice, taking decisions without that assurance, and craving for that warmth—it seemed to be the hardest time of my life.
Only to make things worse, I got indulged into self-harm. I starved myself, kept myself awake, stayed unshaved, and did all the possible things to overcome the pain I was having in my chest. There was no way I could see the light as I was looking at the wrong place.
There was just one thing that didn’t let me quit, and it was this thought: I matter a lot.
It wasn’t still that simple. The more I tried to rise, the deeper I fell. I’d voraciously read everything I came across to escape. It did comfort me in the beginning but after a while, I started to find what I’ve lost in between the lines, and I knew that was harmful. Thereafter, I started filling the pages of my journal. It too didn’t last for long.
It took me a while to realise that it is because I’m forcing myself away from things that were dear to me, and that’s not the right treatment to my body and my mind and my heart. After that, I left it on time. I didn’t stop my tears. I didn’t pretend to be strong, Although, I stayed isolated, but I didn’t tell anyone that I’m fine. I was obviously not.
It was an inexplicable feeling when I started to feel lighter. I learnt that I should just give myself time, and it will heal itself. It definitely did. And for the loss, it was when I realised that I no more need what is no more mine, I faced myself in the mirror and said it aloud: I won.
I have no blood in my veins. I have ink.