healing.

I've been told that healing is a process.
It's a long, drawn out, painful process; one that will make you cry out in pain;
one that will bring you to your knees; one that will kick you when you've hit rock bottom.
All of the memories are bittersweet.
Everything reminds you of something else, something you never want to think of again.

I'm healing.
Everyday the past is a little further removed.  
Je regarde le ciel.  C'est une nouvelle journee. 
C'est la vie.
Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay.
I repeat those words to myself. I think of how far I've come.
I take a deep breath. All will be well. 
In time all will be well. 


I tell myself I'm healing. I tell myself it isn't just getting worse.
I want to believe it.
I try to believe it. 
I tell others how much better everything is now. I tell them that I'm strong, that life carries on. 
"There are no worries," I smile and say. 
It's a fake smile on my face; a smile I've plastered on so many times its habit. I cover even the slightest cracks with a temporary facade. 
 

They have no idea how broken I am inside. They haven't the slightest idea how terrified I am to breath, to open my eyes, to live.  No body has a clue how scared I am to even leave my room.  I could stay here forever.  I could lie in bed everyday and never feel guilty.  I could lie there and feel safe, secure. I could live in a delusion.  Really, the ones who don't know are the ones who save me.  The ones that keep me going.  If only they could realize how important they are.  How all of them are heroes.  How they've all saved me in one way or another.