I’ve built up courage to tell people about things they could probably hold against me. I’ve given some people access to it, to know about my life in words. To hold the knife against my neck and keep it there.
I told myself, they can wield the knife to kill but only if I give them my neck, and I want to believe that there’s no issue in showing the people I love around me this part of my life. I was opening up. Trying to show people a part of me that I’d always been scared to show. My wounds. My scars. My life.
But when I speak to people, I have to be cautious. This was the one place, where I didn’t have to watch what I was saying because it was my hideout. It was my safe zone. It was a secret. Somehow, I feel that I have to be more cautious now, think about the consequences of my writing and wait for these people to look me the in eye and run their knives across my neck.
But I can forgive them, because they do it without realising. Without realising the consequences of what they inflict upon me. I’m not sure how to put this without sounding ungrateful. I cherish the people around me highly, I love them and will forever be loyal to them but my feelings aren’t stories for you to read. It’s my feelings, my most treasured feelings. I don’t want to be asked if it was about you, I don’t want to be told that you feel sad because I felt this way. I felt this way once upon a time. That is true, but I don’t feel that way now.
I write to set these feelings aside, and when I’m ready I let the world see what I overcame. My problems are a fleeting occurrence, which soon go because new emotions overtake it.