It’s been a year now. Haircuts, solo trips, going for therapy and hating you; nothing worked because we do not realize that when people leave we do not stop loving them.
I have promised myself that I won’t write about you because like those unwrapped cigarettes that are kept in my drawer or those unfinished poems. I think certain things are best when they are kept untouched. I would rather let them burn in my own flame.
After you left, mother wept quietly at my bedside. The cold towel pressed on my forehead and a whispered prayer. Her tears could not wash away mine.
I had been screaming and slamming at people. You know the times when you want to choose death and walk away from every damn person who wants to show you logic?
My sufferings were audible to my own ears. For months, I have tried to find the map to my own wounds. The doctors attached a new name to the disease, yet music saved me when nothing else could.
My ruins taught me how to laugh and I found myself in the midway through those unsipped coffees and unread texts. I had jars and jars of chocolates and then vomited it all, thinking that I could land happiness at once.
My morbidity looked like a novel. Unread and blank. I was trapped in a dungeon for months and when I finally wanted to escape, my nightmares escaped with me.
So, a year later, when you said how I have changed, I wanted to slam you against the door and scream at you and tell you that nobody who has gone through hell returns looking like an angel. But despite the hurt I smiled and left.
I have finally learnt from you this convenient habit of leaving without a reply.
My hate ran out of words to express itself; and there were moments I felt this hate eating me up from within. Sure, there were songs and laughter and friends. But there were memories as well; memories I found too hard to erase at a moment’s notice.
You didn’t remind me of love anymore nor friendship, yet there was something about you that got on my nerves. I don’t know if it was natural to want to hurt you or to see you burn the way I did from within. If my anger knew some magic, I would have rather seen you implode!
But all of this really did not take me anywhere. It was almost like repeating the vicious cycle of hate over and over again. And it was then that I could realize that try as I might I still had some part of you left in me.
It was crumpled and dirty, but it stayed. All my strength to wrench out every single trace of you seemed futile at that moment. But hey, was I dead before I met you? I guess not! Not at all. I was a live wire and always will be.
The best part is that it was much later that I understood what left that little bit within me when I was busy cleaning the house. To tell you the truth, it amuses me now… amuses me to think that I was solely responsible for the pain I had to endure. And how was that possible? Through hate.
It did not let me sleep, did not let me drink, and did not let me eat… Hell, it did not let me live at peace for a moment. I wanted to hurt you all the time and that was how I ended up hurting myself the most. As wondrous as love can be it can also hurt like crazy. The people we love are the ones who can really really hurt us. And that is what happened to me. You leaving hurt me at my core, hurt my soul and it I got lost in reclaiming my soul, healing my wounds.
It took me some time, but I did end up understanding the fact that it is not my responsibility to hurt you or teach you a lesson. The only thing that I should have been concerned about is how good I was…. The only thing that mattered is to love myself first. To caress my soul. To walk away from this part of my life stronger than ever.
As far as I think, it probably took me about a couple of weeks at most. I rediscovered myself for the first time in many months, and all I could think of was the fact that I looked more beautiful than ever. Beautiful from inside. A beautiful soul. I aged like a fine wine, perhaps! But I didn’t need you to tell me that.
Written by Poonam Chatterjee
I am the 27 -year-old budding author, pet lover, and foodie. From a tender age of ten, I found my calling in the written word and since then, has been scribbling away my unconventional ideas, sometimes in the last pages of notebooks and sometimes on online blogs. Writing gives me happiness like no other thing.
Week 6, February 21.
