I am a wound
March 13, 2014
Sometimes I wish I couldn’t feel.
I know that is a bold statement, but it is the truth. I would gladly give up experiencing happiness if it meant I no longer had to suffer through heart-wrenching pain and sadness, which unfortunately for me is the emotion that occurs more often. Now, if you have read this blog before, you know that I suffer from depression. It sucks. Sometimes, though, I am not experiencing my sadness. One of my best friends told me that I am tender-hearted and I take on other’s pain. I believe she is right. I am the ultimate definition of sensitive and emotional. This makes it hard to function.
I feel like I am a wound. Sometimes I scab up and think that I am almost healed, and then something happens. It doesn’t necessarily have to happen directly to me, though. It can be a bad day for my mom or a hard situation for a friend, etc. and it RIPS me open. No longer am I a scab, but I am a full on open wound. I am vulnerable. I am in pain. I am hurting. Hurting for others. Hurting for myself. Hurting because my naive ideals are non-existent. Hurting because people aren’t perfect. Hurting because others are going to disappoint you. Hurting because life is not what you might have planned. I hurt and I bleed out. Eventually though I clean up. I bandage the wound. My patched up self takes on the world. I lead, I am involved. I succeed.
Then, the band aid falls off, and for awhile I think I am going to be fine. I am going to heal.
Until someone, whether that is a stranger or a friend or myself, unintentionally or intentionally rips the scab off. And the process starts all over. And I think to myself, will it ever mend? And even if it does, will the scars it undoubtedly leaves be any easier to deal with? I guess I just need thicker, tougher skin.