Lawlessness45

It still hurts. I want to say that clearly because people get the wrong idea about healing. They think it means the pain stops. It doesn’t. The first time I ever sat down and told the full story of my brother’s death, my hands were shaking. I typed it out and then I was terrified to read the words I had written out. Terrified to see my own life reflected back at me. Terrified that what I’d been carrying for all those years would look as heavy from the outside as it felt from the inside. It did. And I cried. And then I couldn’t wait to write more. That’s the part nobody warns you about. The relief doesn’t cancel the pain. It exists alongside it. You feel both at the same time. The unburdening and the breaking. The freedom of finally saying it and the weight of hearing it said. I used to go to the bathroom at work after reading my own chapters. I’d stand in there for a few minutes and just let it come. Then I’d wash my face, walk back to the floor, and finish my shift. Nobody knew.