i’ve found that most people don’t like to talk about pain. they like to bury it, cover it, apply makeup to smear away the dark circles that come from spending nights aching. i’m strange because i actually enjoy remembering the hollow. i really crave talking about the broken pieces of my soul, examining them, recognizing my fragile human state and calling it by name: i am human. i am broken. i am not all together whole like i wish i could be.
and for so long i felt like this made me a freak. a little weirdo in the midst of people who are so much better at being a person. i feel and think too much about the beating heart that keeps me alive. and i publicly crumble, unafraid of the raw edges.
but maybe i like the pain because it reminds me of who i’ve been. where i’ve come from. the depths of loneliness that have brought me to this point of vulnerability that i’m unafraid of for the first time in my life. maybe the world doesn’t have to make us all hard edges, maybe we can have soft bits that feel like play-doh and feel the beating of our own hearts without feeling shame.
maybe we were created to examine the pain. to feel the weight of it. to hold our shattered souls in our hands and allow it to shape who we become. maybe we were meant to be bold in the midst of our struggle, to let our hardships define us, to empower us to become a better version of our past self.
i don’t know. all i know is that talking about pain brings a perspective that was seriously lacking in my life before. it was all pretty and perfect and fake because the word “pain” and “depression” and “loneliness” were missing from my vocabulary. and i don’t miss that life at all. i kind of resent it. it’s nice living without the pretense of perfection.