Out the door

I am out of the house, at the veranda at 2 AM. I came here after rising from bed with a heavy heart. I don’t know how to confront my feelings through other means. Writing has been my coping for a long while already.

In writing, I can be honest. I can rip my heart as I tell the pages what runs in my head.

People (and their emotions) are complex (this line is tantamount to a stab through the heart in broad daylight). And because we are wired this way, we tend to be inconsistent as we navigate this world of endless complexities.

I observed that I can shift through various emotions in a snap. Like the highs and lows of an ocean or the sunny and the sudden rain-pouring weather, I can be manic or sane if the trigger is present.

And lately, the triggers have been everywhere, coming at me even in the places I thought I mastered. The dilemma is the people you told how your heart could be crunched used such knowledge to their advantage. And it is almost fucking impossible to cope fast because there are two slaps to confront: (1) someone who used to be too lovely could cause such misery, and (1) that same lovely person could dare push the knife deeper even when you are already bleeding.

People are only innocent once. Twice an act is intentional.

I would have never come to this admission had I never sneaked out. Awareness is full only when you are out of the situation. I am bleeding but rigorously walking away.

In my early twenties, I learned about walking out of an uncomfortable situation when my gut tells me to do so—even when your weight almost cements you. And I believe such has always been instrumental in my major decision-making.

The pain is looming, but I am healing. I just needed to write about it, believing somehow that I can only be out when I let this out first.