I miss the days I didn’t know the feeling of a blade dragging across my skin or the pain of knuckles against the wall. I don’t even remember times where I looked at medicine as a remedy, fast traffic as an annoyance and heights as an adventure. Why did I come to understand why people stay with their abusers? What did I do to deserve knowing what it’s like to cry until there are no tears left and being unable to sleep until you’re glad to black out for a couple hours away from an endless nightmare? Never should I have been able to trace nearly every bone in my body through gray skin to match dead eyes. Shouldn’t therapy have helped and family and friends have been there?
Still, I’m always there for everyone. I tell them that I’ll understand since there’s hardly anything I haven’t been through except one thing. Isn’t it sad that the only thing I can’t relate to, is happiness?