“You’re doing fine”.
The cracks never heal, we just learn how to conceal them with time.
Part of what we do with our grief is how we perceive the lives presented before us. It’s easy to be dismissive, but grief builds up a soul that is more vibrant and empathetic towards those that endure it.
I used to not believe, “It’ll be alright” could ever help anybody; the statement always felt empty and the words lost their meaning over time. When all else fails, and I constantly kept falling into a deeper depression, when the medicines tend to be failing and no amount of therapy could repair the broken cracks within; I’d learn the value of remembering the cracks don’t ever fully repair, we just learn how to conceal them with time.
I believed grief should be personal, not to be shared, not to be exploited, the fear of being ridiculed and appealing to the masses as a victim felt like a failure in its own condition.
We grow to become better human beings, recovering with time and learning that the battle is always ongoing; never resolved. Finding catharsis in medication is the mildest of repair for the misery that ensues, eating away every ounce of self-esteem one has to work with.
It’s in a rare moment, with time, we find a younger version of yourself; a soul that too seems lost, and it takes on a life on its own. “This one is worth saving, don’t give up”, don’t feel like empty words anymore but rather a promise to oneself that this is my duty. Help those in need, offer a helping hand. They’ll fight you for it, neglect you, turn you away, but you’ll persist — it’s not the end of the world.
It’s these reminders, that I need to continue my journey of survival that there is another human being out there worth saving and that there’s much more to what I perceive through my own vision of a broken soul. Amputated at its very core is a resolution to be found; one that needs a voice of reason — not one of neglect.
In this moment, I tend to think back to the times I too was told “It’ll be alright” and it never felt complete and yet here I was finding myself doing the same.
Give it a go, I’ll help you get back up. We can do this, no matter how long it takes to recover.
Step by step, we start to come to terms with the situations we find ourselves in and the consequence for which we must bear the pain and endure.
Carry on, you’re doing fine — I’d say.
You’re not lost, not yet. We can make this recovery because I too have been there.
In this realisation of helping others, I found myself realising that I must too be willing to lay my soul bare witness to the cracks that I’ve concealed for far too long.
I’ve been there, and I might have felt differently than you do because of course not everybody copes with pain the same; but I promise I’ll understand, I’ll try myself to do so.
I owe it to my younger self and those who helped me endure, those empty words were never meant to provide shelter; just a glimpse of hope.
If you can’t see the light right now, that’s fine. It’s okay. There’s no rush.
We’ve come a long way, you and I.
Know that I am here and still alive, and we can do this.
Just remember to look at yourself and remember, on this path to recovery, no matter how futile it feels; “you’re doing fine.”