Some people ask me how I spend my time, I remain silent, but the words I heal sit at the tip of my tongue that is usually always covered with the remnants of Oreos. A part of me chooses to walk down the easy path of answering such a question because I know the answer will be revealed like an obnoxious tattoo inscribed across the expanse of my face soon enough. Perhaps the tattoo would be embodied in the fading bags underneath my eyes or a sheen of felicity plastered across my skin. But, on the other (and a significantly larger) hand, a part of me chooses to walk down the easy path of such a question because the answers to the follow-up ones are embarrassing. No, I am not injured. No, I’m not broken. And oh, God, no, I don’t spend a large chunk of my day meditating to put my soul at ease.
If I ever confessed about my path towards healing myself, it would start with the foundation of my belief in the importance of band-aids. Not merely because the ones my mother bought at the corner store truly did heal some horrifying skating incidents when I was younger, but also because proverbial band-aids stopped any salt from rubbing on my wound. And the salt was like the darkest thunderstorms, pouring everywhere and manifested as comments on social media or words spewing out of people’s mouths. The band-aids rest atop my wounds like a second skin, shielding me from anything and everything until I drive myself to the point where I can rip them off without having any opening that would push me to make use of a new band-aid for the same weakness.
I spend a few days of the month relentlessly sobbing into my pillow, then some more when I realize I can’t fall asleep in a damp, salty cloud. Sometimes I play the music that I know wouldn’t simply reach my ears but tug at every one of my heartstrings. I do that because I want to feel the pain of a heartbreak I’ve never experienced and mourn the loss of the one who got away that was never truly mine. I re-watch the same TV shows because they seem to get better each time as I can recite more and more dialogues as the tally grows higher. I mix myself up a drastic concoction of foods that definitely don’t belong in each other’s embrace because it reminds me of a time I don’t remember the intricate details of. I write down every remotely exciting thought I have in a day, whether it is a compliment to another person or a chaotic combination of words expressing constructive criticism on their character, because I enjoy reading it back a week later to realize a part of me changed in those seven days.
Every part of me is aware that my healing might not truly be healing. In fact, I’m sure many of my steps towards healing might just be pushing me two steps back instead of forward. But after attempting to follow through with the unofficial, popular rulebook of healing, I realized that it is only when I do the most simple, cliche things that I feel truly healed.