That Day.

As you closed the door behind you, I stood there for a moment, just staring at it, in shock.

I made myself mac & cheese, and I ate it in silence while sitting on my bed. I savored this simple meal after losing ten pounds over the past few weeks due to the anxiety. I was receiving tons of text messages and a few phone calls, but I did not have the energy or courage to respond. I still remember the outfit I was wearing. I even remember the outfit I wore the next day when I burst into tears in front of my discussion group while in class.

A weight had lifted off of my shoulders, but it had left a hole of emptiness. What was I supposed to do next?

I did not expect the healing process to last as long as it did, or for it to be ongoing. I did not expect myself to be able to love someone else as deeply. I am strong, and I no longer sacrifice my happiness for another’s ego, but I still feel powerless and broken from time to time. I still find myself hesitating before expressing exactly what I think or how I feel or sharing the most vulnerable parts of myself. The parts that might push away the people who mean the most to me.

My body split into two that day, and I still have a prominent scar.

Scars are beautiful. They tell stories, and remind me of how I was and who I am now. They make sure that I do not forget you and that I do not place you, or anyone else, on a pedestal. They tell me that I should love myself more than anyone else could ever possibly love me. For these reasons, I am okay with replaying this day over and over in my head.

This piece of my heart is very personal.