Sometimes her voice is the softest, saddest voice, that you can only hear in your darkest times.
Sometimes her voice is the loudest, most vicious voice you’ve ever heard, and she is constantly screaming in your ear.
You can see her in your own eyes, and in the eyes of others.
Sometimes her pain is a soft, dull ache. And sometimes it’s a sharp, throbbing stab to the back; a pain that spreads from your back, down your legs and arms, up to your head and finally making its final blow to your chest, and you feel like you might fall down and never get back up.
She walks around questioning everything. She wonders if she will ever feel at ease with her life.
She demands your attention and won’t settle. Not again.
If you let her, she will eat you alive, all the while telling you that you asked for it.
She is cruel. She is vicious. And she is misunderstood.
She demands that you listen. She demands that you feel. She wants you to learn, but it’s up to you to find the lesson.
She takes patience. She takes deliberation. She takes work. But eventually you can tell her to leave. Use your own voice, use your logic, your reasons, your heart. Tell her that you made a mistake. Tell her that you’re still trying, that you’re still learning. Tell her that you appreciate the opportunity to spend time with her, but that she has overstayed her welcome.
Calmly tell her that you’ll see her again, but that you hope she spends some time elsewhere for awhile, because you need a break. You need to heal. You need to learn to live with her, or completely forget about her.
This was a post that has been on my list of things to write about from Thought Catalog:
26. Personify regret.