We all have our own idea of hell on earth. Ideally, of course, (I’ll say it because I know it’s on everyone’s mind) we choose happiness. However, some find comfort in sadness, relief in rock bottom. The state of ease to which the world suddenly becomes weightless and your back can finally relax.
We all know what it’s like to grasp at straws and to cringe at the words we’re all guilty of comforting with. Yes, the ones in every self-help book that are supposedly ‘the best advice to give’. “Time heals all wounds.” This may or may not be true. Or, perhaps, we’re just as stubborn as the next brokenhearted person in actually facing the truth about time. It goes on.
My childhood hell was haunted by my father, the monster of my memories. The reason I found salvation under my bed. I took my chances with the monster there, than the one in my doorway. He was a stranger then, just as he is a stranger now.
And the more and more I dig to find myself, to really begin figuring myself out, I’m brought back to him. The man who is in every word I fall in love with, in every heartbreak I encounter, in every inch of my being, every corner of my thoughts. Because hate runs in my blood.
I’m the type of person that holds every hell I’ve ever been in, in my back pocket. I find comfort in my sadness and I’ll admit that to any one of you that asks. Because my bad memories hold firm over my good. And there are days that I can convince myself I’m past those days, that growing up means letting go. Just as there are days when I’m just as broken as I feel.
And I will put together all those moments, and hold on as tight as I can; ball up my fists and go head first into the storm. Because when the time comes, for things to fall apart, I’ll be ready. What’s that saying? “What comes together, falls apart.” Every time. Even I, eventually, will fall apart.