Lessons Learned
I know you were meant to be a lesson every time I mention you in a conversation and realize you’re coming up in different contexts, triggering new emotions within.
So there’s pain. I know there’s always pain. But sometimes when I speak about you, I can tell there’s an unprecedented level of maturity, too. I’ve grown so much because of all the things you unawarely did, and never noticed they traumatized my entire being. I can’t fully despise my trauma now when I can see it unfolded into this many new sides of me.
There’s anger. Sometimes at myself, for all the mistakes I’ve done that has led you straight to my most vulnerable spots, where I openly allowed you to very strategically hurt me. Yet I know that when I mention you at a time I’m generally more gentle with the world, I can find it in me to forgive myself for all that I didn’t know. Sometimes the anger turns more towards you. But it quickly fades away once I’m able to internalize that this was meant to happen anyway. You were merely a tool, never a reason. Sometimes I don’t see you as part of the equation at all.
There’s also despair. There’s constantly spotting more people like you, making it harder to imagine a reality that matches what I once believed to be true. Your existence makes me doubtful, but there’s often some hope. There’s hope that you’re all simply a step on an ever evolving stairway. That this is only preparing me for a grande finale I cannot yet foresee.
Sometimes your name comes up so casually, that anyone listening would be convinced I never had anything to do with you. Sometimes I’d be in a very unfamiliar setting and I’d so noticeably flinch at the sight of someone who slightly looks like you, that your syllables would instantly slip right through.
You still come up in the most unexpected ways, and I’m not sure if I can ever tell my story without mentioning you alongside all the lessons you’ll never understand that your lack of awareness has taught me. Now I can’t tell if I should be grateful, or if I’d rather continue to loathe you. But I’m certain that even if I decide on one, the other will involuntarily follow the next time I retell the story, at a slightly different phase.
