The wounded man

Quentin from Paper Towns (John Green) came to the profound revelation that “the only wounded man i can be is me”. i think that we are fundamentally alone in the things that hurt us most. the ones that tear us apart. Theodore Finch from All the Bright Places (Jeniffer Niven) came to the same conclusion “we are all alone, trapped in these bodies and our own minds, and whatever company we have in this life is only fleeting and superficial.”
in the past, i have been accused of being a martyr and loving it because i do not say the warring thoughts churning inside me. such assumptions are boldy wrong.i have tried to articulate what is eating my insides. what it is that quietens my laughter in a second. what breaks my heart at midnight and the falling rain drowns my choking sobs. i have tried but words fall short. or rather, i cannot let loose those words without committing murder. i do not know how to say out these monstrous words without going feral. i have come close to calling out my nightmares. the worst kind that stalk at day. i have come close not once but a couple of times. i did come close about a week ago. my very close friend reminded me of something when they said they really could not understand what i was saying. i felt broken not because they could not understand but because this thing cannot be quite understood. how do you explain the yearning of death when you are living and even loved? are there terms that can break this isolating silence of pain without breaking the heart of those listening? i think when you live with pain as part of your normal you live on an island. people can come and visit. even stay for a while but in the end, they leave. and you continue living. until the day your footbridge will be long enough to get you out of the island.
it is written somewhere that ”i am the sad person and the person comforting the sad person.” how accurate. i am the one in pain and the one binding the bleeding cuts. i am the sinner and the priest listening to the rambling confessions. i am the human seeking forgiveness and i am the god granting another second chance. i am the artist, the muse and even the canvas. all my roles tire me. they contradict me but ” i contain multitudes” (Walt Whitman) hence my living is a contradiction. for such a long time, i have learned to feel one thing and say the other. the forging of a private war began in me in childhood that by now, it seems like an art. i thought of closing this space down because i thought it means nothing. i think that most of the things i do do not amount to much. i suppose i do not know my value yet. speaking of making art, i suppose that is why some people even some of my friends do not actually believe that i am mentally ill. i suppose i carry it and make of it (without any sort of intention) a charming and endearing aesthetic. perhaps the ghost of Oscar Wilde would approve. but there is nothing charming about mental illness and its loneliness. its power to exile you into the land between the living and the dead. nothing charming about bathing while lying down. nothing charming about your best friend not being able to understand what you are going through. nothing charming about seeing your mother cry because she does not know how to save you. nothing charming about thinking everything i do does not f**king matter. (today is not for cursing).
i began by saying that we are fundamentally alone in our suffering. our deepest pains. but you remind me that even though we are not together, we are standing on the same ground and that means we are not completely alone. i just want to say thank you to you who has ever read any of these words. they have found a home right here and i hope somewhere within you too. i cannot be grateful enough for your taking time to affirm the existence of my thoughts and by extension, my own existence too. i hope you get a language strong enough to bear the weight of the unsaid that you carry. a language that will not flinch when you need to express your deepest hurts. and suppose you find no such language, you can borrow a few of my terms. but “…if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me, because I, too, am fluent in silence.” R.Arnold.

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