This Is Not How I Wanted Things To Go

I was sixteen.

I was sixteen.

When the wounds started healing.

Not the invisible wounds that haunted my mind, but the visible ones, the ones I inflicted on myself in a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming pain of this tiresome world. Hurting myself became a twisted form of solace, a way to feel something, anything, when the numbness threatened to consume me.

Seeing my own blood drip down onto my skin—it was like proof that I was still alive, that I still existed, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away. It gave me a sense of control, a way to quiet the chaos in my mind, if only for a moment. It was a release, an outlet, a way to escape everything that felt too big, too heavy, too unbearable.

But even as those physical wounds began to heal, the scars they left behind were a constant reminder of the battles I had fought, and the ones I was still fighting. The pain didn't disappear—it just shifted, becoming a part of me, etched into my skin as a testament to the struggles I had endured.

I wanted to heal, to move past the need to hurt myself, but the urge was always there, lurking in the background, whispering that it was the only way to cope. And even as I tried to resist, to find other ways to deal with the pain, I knew that I was still searching for an escape, still trying to find a way out of the darkness that had become my reality.

As I sat there, staring at the fading lines on my skin, I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions—relief that the physical pain was subsiding, but also a gnawing emptiness that filled the void it left behind. The wounds on my body were healing, closing up with time, but they left behind something more profound, something that went deeper than the surface of my skin.

I found myself tracing those scars absentmindedly, my fingers running over the rough edges, feeling the raised bumps where the skin had stitched itself back together.

Each scar told a story, a moment in time when everything became too much, when the pressure in my mind built to a point where it needed release. They were a map of my pain, a record of the times when I felt like I was drowning and the only way to breathe was to bleed.

There was a certain irony in it all.

I had hurt myself to feel something, to remind myself that I was still alive, but in doing so, I had created new marks that would never truly fade. And while the physical wounds healed, the emotional ones festered beneath the surface, growing more potent with each passing day.

I would sit in my room, alone with my thoughts, the silence suffocating. The world outside continued to move, but inside, it felt like time had stopped, leaving me trapped in an endless loop of despair. I wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything to release the emotions that clawed at my insides, but instead, I would just sit there, numb, staring at the remnants of my pain, unable to find the words to express what I was feeling.

Sometimes, I would catch my reflection in the mirror, and I would see a stranger looking back at me.

Someone who wore the same face, but whose eyes were hollow, drained of the light they once held.

I didn't recognize the person I had become, and that scared me more than the pain itself.

I was losing myself, bit by bit, to the darkness that had wrapped itself around me, suffocating any semblance of hope.

And yet, there was a part of me that still clung to the idea of healing, of finding a way out of this abyss. But that part was small, buried deep beneath layers of fear, shame, and guilt. The urge to hurt myself was always there, a persistent whisper in the back of my mind, telling me that it was the only way to feel again, to take control when everything else felt so chaotic.

Why do I need to suffer?

Why am I the one suffering when I wasn't the one who inflicted trauma and pain on myself?

Why do I have to forgive others who never even said sorry, just to heal myself?

These questions echoed in my mind, haunting me every time I tried to make sense of my pain.

It felt so unfair—unjust even—that I was the one left to pick up the pieces of a life shattered by others. The ones who hurt me went on with their lives, seemingly untouched by the wreckage they left behind, while I was the one drowning in the aftermath, struggling to breathe under the weight of the pain they caused.

I was angry—angry at them for what they did, angry at myself for still carrying it with me, and angry at the world for expecting me to somehow let it all go. How could I forgive people who didn't even acknowledge the hurt they caused?

How could I find peace when the wounds they inflicted were still raw, still bleeding inside of me?

The idea that forgiveness was supposed to be for my own healing felt like a cruel joke.

It felt like asking too much, like another burden to bear.

I was the one who had been wronged, yet I was expected to be the one to rise above it, to find the strength to forgive when all I wanted was justice—an acknowledgment, an apology, something to validate my pain.

But deep down, I knew that waiting for an apology that would never come was only hurting me more. It was like holding onto a burning coal, hoping the heat would sear the person who hurt me, but only scorching my own hand instead. The anger and resentment festered inside me, poisoning my thoughts, my actions, my very sense of self.

I resented the fact that in order to heal, I was told I had to let go of the anger, to release the grip I had on the past.

But how could I let go when it was the only thing that made the pain feel real, the only thing that validated my suffering?

It felt like forgiving them would be letting them off the hook, as if their actions didn't have lasting consequences.

Yet, I couldn't deny the toll it was taking on me. The anger was exhausting, the pain consuming. It seeped into every aspect of my life, coloring everything in shades of bitterness and despair. I didn't want to carry this with me forever, but I didn't know how to put it down either.

I longed for peace, for a way to heal that didn't feel like surrendering to the injustice of it all. But every time I tried to move forward, I was pulled back by the weight of the unresolved, the unanswered, the unspoken. I was trapped in a cycle of pain that I didn't know how to break, caught between wanting to heal and wanting to hold onto the anger that felt like my only defense.

The scars on my skin were a testament to the battles I had fought, but the scars on my soul—those were the ones that refused to fade. They were the ones that kept me up at night, questioning why I had to be the one to suffer, why I had to be the one to forgive, when all I wanted was for someone else to bear the burden for once.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, forgiveness wasn't about them at all. Maybe it was about freeing myself from the chains that kept me bound to a past that could never be changed. Maybe it was about reclaiming my life, my future, in a way that they could never take from me.

It was a terrifying thought—to let go of the anger, to release the pain—but it was also a glimmer of hope, a chance to find something beyond the suffering, beyond the scars. It was a chance to finally take a step forward, not for them, but for me.

Because this is not how I wanted things to go, but maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to make peace with that, too.