It was art that healed me of my trauma.
Long before I started seeing a therapist…
Long before I could vocalize my pain
And way way long before, I could afford to be broken before anyone else…
I sat through heartbreaking notes. Song by song by song…
I cried through incomplete verses. Poem by poem by poem…
Majorly because I had to hold my own hand,
And sadly because nobody else knew how to take my pain away…
Or maybe, they were just so scared…
Because nobody really asked.
In secret I wrote letters that never left my diary…
And each of my dead characters got one…Several times a week.
Attempting to question them,
And then attempting to make up excuses for them.
That maybe. Only maybe. It was the only way they knew to cope…
Leaving. Maybe leaving was their only option.
Back then I didn’t get it..
But now I do.
I know all about getting tired.
I know all about being surrounded by people and yet being on your own.
I know all about not having anyone to reach out to…
And how devastating it can be.
So maybe I didn’t get it then
And maybe that’s why I blamed it on them at first.
But now I know better.
I know it might have been a well thought out exit.
Anyway…this was all about art and its healing power
I hope now it’s evident…
You also just experienced it.
How calmly it listens and let’s you rant
How easy it is to pour your heart out in its confines…
And that my friends,
That’s the absolute healing power of any form of art.
You don’t even realize you’re getting better
Until you look back and no longer feel the pain
…yet, you can see the healing traces in all the dry tears on your older diaries,
…in your older playlists that you no longer relate to
…when you look around and people now acknowledge you with a smile instead of a weird nod.
You realize you’re now well.
Worthy of a cheerful Hi…
Instead of the usually sad glances and a nod.
That’s how you know all the time spent alone with your art paid off.
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