One of my greatest fears is getting hurt. Nope, not physically, but emotionally. The kind of hurt you feel when somebody you care about just breaks your trust, the kind that doesn’t involve a few bruises on the knee that go away with time, but the kind that leaves an indelible mark, within.
But. Getting hurt isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. It tore me apart, broke my confidence and left me helpless, yes, but it also taught me so much more about myself.
I learnt how to be alone. I’m the person who loves being around people, but it’s amusing to know how I feel when I just spend time with myself. It’s like I’m drifting in space, just floating around, knowing nobody’s judging me, knowing that I’ll be alright, I’ll be just fine. And being alone, I learnt how to heal myself and that my thoughts were all that were stopping me from feeling better.
I saw how absolutely fabulous my friends were. How so many of them were actually there for me, how they had my back, how they made me feel loved. It made me see how much I was missing out on.
And I started writing again, little by little, putting a few sentences together, just writing for myself, just putting pen to paper. Writing again is my favourite part.
But, what troubles me, is the fact that one such experience actually influences most decisions I take now. I’ve become more cautious, I just refuse to trust my instinct. Maybe, hopefully, this is just another phase. It should pass, right? But what if it doesn’t? What if I just keep questioning my instinct? What if I never learn how to trust somebody again?