A Self-love Story

Chapter 4

Grief is like the ocean. It comes on waves, ebbing and flowing. All we can do is learn to swim.

Dear Diary,

Today I opened my eyes with surprising difficulty. Why surprising, you ask? Well, most days my sleep is plagued by nightmares or a deep sense of uneasiness, the anticipation of disaster, thereby making me wake up pretty easily. But today, I snoozed my alarm twice before waking up and even when I did wake up, my eyes did not open fully and my legs didn't get the memo that they had to be awake.

As I touched upon my makeup, I stared into the mirror and observed my scars. I aimlessly touched each one and wondered what I did to deserve it. Maybe I was a thief in my past life? Or maybe a serial killer? Or the worst of all, maybe I was a politician? After patting myself on the back (figuratively of course) for burying my grief under the reassuring weight of jokes and making good on my promise not to feel anything, I set out of the house.

I walked into my workplace, immediately feeling the warmth of the darkness wrap around me comfortingly, like a hug.

I gave a respectful nod to my boss who nodded back, his expression holding less emotion than a brick. Wow, he must be trying out the don't-feel-at-all strategy too, huh? And he seemed to be doing even better than me. Maybe I should ask him for some tips?

I walked over to where I was assigned last time and stood there, bored. To occupy myself, I began counting the number of tiles on the floor. Yeah, I was that bored. During this stimulating activity, somebody tapped me on the shoulder, effectively startling me.

"Miss Jade-Garcia, your position today is over there," my wonderful boss said, having no concern whatsoever that I nearly got a heart attack.

"Huh? My position got changed so soon?" I had asked, confusedly.

"At the Black Archive we change the employees' position on a daily basis, to make it less boring," he had said, his tone and facial expression conveying that he did not agree with this method one bit. I had simply nodded and moved to the place he had pointed to.

As soon as I'd gone over there, I began hating my new position. There were way too many people milling around here and many gawked at my face, more than they did at the paintings. One woman even had the nerve to ask me about my scars in the rudest possible way.

"What happened to your face?!" She had asked, making a point to point right at it, like I wouldn't know where my face was.

I had taken a deep breath. I still don't know whether it was to prevent myself from breaking the woman's finger or breaking down into tears. I forced my lips into a polite professional smile, ignoring the deafening murmur of thoughts in my head.

"I got into a car accident," I had replied, my cheeks aching from the false smile they were holding up, feeling like they were holding up the weight of the world.

"Oh, pity! It must be so unfortunate not to be able to fix...that," she had said and my heart had done a nosedive in my chest. But I had simply politely nodded, quelling my urge to cry or shout. I can't do either right now, I'm working, I had told myself and added, besides, I don't really feel like crying. I don't feel anything at all, in fact. Liar, the voice in my head had screamed at me and as most people do to random voices in their head, I had ignored it.

For the rest of the day, I pretended that her words didn't echo inside my head and that my heart didn't scrunch up like a raisin every time I thought about them. I simply kept a small smile on my face and directed people to whichever exhibit they wanted to see.

When my shift had finished, I made a trip to the nearest Target. I bought some paints, brushes and some paper. I went home and began painting. I still don't know what prompted that. Maybe after standing among so many paintings, I decided to give it a shot myself. I threw colours onto the paper in no pattern and kept it up until I felt like stopping. Each time I threw a colour onto the paper, I felt a weight lift from my heart. Seeing it splash onto the paper made it seem like I had someone to share my burdens with and pour my mind out to. When I had finished, the paper was full of colours and I had to say it looked positively ugly, but I felt so much better that I'd say it served its purpose. And I realised that the wonderful purpose it served made it beautiful. What is my purpose?

Afterwards, I put it all aside and decided to take a walk. Bundled up in my scarf and jacket, I walked down the street towards a nearby park. The cold air kissed my skin, leaving shivers in its wake. The wind lifted my platinum blonde hair and played with it like it was a puppet, making it sway to its every command. I reached the park and a smile nearly yanked my lips into a smile when I realised that almost nobody was staring at me. Hmm, were the Gods finally warming up to me?

I sat down on a bench and leaned my head back, staring up at the pale blue sky decorated with cotton candy-like clouds. Then I let the hurricane of thoughts come and sweep me into their arms.

Somebody hurt me today. Not physically, no, they stabbed me with words and let my insecurities bleed. I did not react and instead kept myself from feeling. That made it hurt less, I think. This no-feeling thing really is working. If I'd let her words enter my system and let it fully get to me, I would have broken down right there. So, I should keep this up. Yes, I should continue to not feel, I thought. A sly voice had then whispered in my head, if it is really working so well, then why do you need to constantly convince yourself to keep this up? The words had hit too close to home, so I simply ignored them and let my mind drift to a different topic.

Splashing paint on that paper had been so relieving, therapeutic even. Maybe I should start doing that more often. The paper seemed to listen to the whole spectrum of emotions I wanted to express and the best part was that it never judged. It couldn't give a reply and thus it couldn't hurt me. From my past, one important thing I have learned, is that if you let people get close to you and tell them your fears and your happiness, you're handing them knives that they'll later cut you with. With that upbeat thought, I returned home, my face devoid of emotion once more and the few that were left in my head were disposed of too.

Yours,
Tia.

Hope you like the story!