June 5, 2016 • 1:43 am
It’s not strange when we hide our pain to ourselves. It’s strange when we don’t. It’s strange when we talk about it to others. It’s strange when we tell them. Because pain is a feeling, and is supposed to be felt. Just like love, just like passion, just like happiness or any other sensitivity we have inside us. And somehow, I find myself lost of words for it, I bet some of you too. I guess maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why we can’t ever explain it sometimes because it’s too hard for us to find a word to frame it when there’s no any. And it is because it’s a feeling inside, not a thing outside of us that can easily be seen, explained… or even describe.
Or maybe it’s hard because it’s hard to find someone who’ll actually listen, who will understand or who won’t judge. Or someone we can really trust, or who will feel the same way. Or someone who can relate, or who can connect with us. And sometimes it’s just hard. And I mean, it’s just plain hard — that is all. Sometimes when you feel all that, everything’s hard… But I guess maybe sometimes, you also need someone who can reach out to you and be there for you. And not because you want to. But because s/he can feel you.
I wonder how hard it was for us to bear all these hurt and harrowing pain inside us and not once have we ever tried to talk about it to anyone.
It must’ve been fcking real hard, I suppose…
I wonder if those pain would appear on our bodies one by one, and if we could walk around seeing those wounds or disease… Would we look at us? Or each other? What would we look like? A casualties? Like, a bloody wounded people that had just gone from a war? Or a people corrupted by a plague? Or maybe we’re people full of scars; we would never even recognize our faces anymore if we ever bumped into each other again.
I mean, pain is pain. No matter what kind of pain it is. We knew it. Whether a loss, heartbreak, agony, misery. — they all feel the same… regardless of the reason. Still tastes like pain. We’ll always recognize it when it comes; always felt familiar. It is what it is. I thought maybe if we could talk about it to others or even just someone, we would feel a little better; a little less alone. A little less miserable. But that was the point. It’s what making it stung even more. When you need one but there’s no one. Unfortunately, I’m not making any sense. I’m trying to make up a word for pain, but here I am saying it’s because you’re all alone? Sucks. But let’s just put it down lightly. Pain is what killing you inside — and it’s what will make you want to kill what’s on the outside.
I wonder how much we have endured just to desperately hide it.
We want someone who’ll gonna be there but there’s no one. Perhaps that’s what makes us feel that we are indeed alone. When we’re alone with our thoughts; alone with our feelings… and fears. It’s when the silence becomes painful, instead of peaceful. The chaos of isolation. The pang of oppression.
But we’re not that desperate. Or at least, we don’t want to appear to be. We don’t want to look like one. I know sometimes it’s because we’re just a little shy… or timid, let’s say. Or maybe because we’re afraid they would reject us. Or most of the time, we want to contain it to ourselves. We don’t want to burden them with loads of what we feel, when we know clearly, that it’s not going be so easy for them. To both bear and understand. You know exactly how that pain feels like and fear that if you share it with them, they’d feel the same way which is apparently,– not a good idea. Which is why you just keep it to yourself.
It’s not that easy to find a word. It’s not easy to find someone. It’s not easy to tell; not easy to talk about. It’s not easy to share. It’s not easy to watch them suffer for it; or with what’s supposed to be just yours. And it’s mostly not easy to keep it to yourself any longer either, when you know it’s already killing you. It’s. Not. Easy.
It’s not easy to cut yourself open and show them that you bleed. To open yourself up and expose your vulnerability… to show them every cracks..
Sometimes nothing’s easy.
But you choose the last choice — to keep it to yourself even if it’s killing you; even if it’s not easy. But to keep it inside you no matter what the cost seems to be a better option, than to cause harm when you share it to them and let them feel the same thing.
And If you’re a grenade and you’re gonna blow up at some point, I bet you’d never want to see anyone to pick you up and kill them, or let them die with you when it’s time for your inevitable explosion.
I bet you’d rather choose to be alone with it, as well. No matter how much it hurts anyway.
To be alone, that is.
But I wish I can tell you. I wish I can make you understand. I wish I can explain to you. But I can’t. I just can’t. I do not know how. Because how can you explain something you don’t even understand yourself? I cannot tell you not because I don’t want to; but because I just don’t really know how. I wish I can describe to you just how I feel… so that you may know, and that I may feel a little less alone, and a little bit free… So that you would get me, so that you will understand what’s going on inside me. But that’s the thing. I’m blowing up and I don’t know what to do. I do not know how to escape; I do not know where to go. I just do not really know how. I’m just simply lost…