As I lay underneath my comforter, staring at the blank ceiling, my hair strands covering the left side of my cheek, there are a gazillion dimensions of a few thousand thoughts that spiral in perfect harmony.
There is a part of me that begins aching for a bitter memory, a memory which left me horrified and scarred. I am aware of the predicament and the ambiguity of my feelings. Somewhere in the shallow depth, lies the imbroglio of a mysterious connotation, that I cannot put to words.
I feel a sudden need to express my sorrow and vent my anger in the form of aggressive strokes of tears and tightened muscles. I don’t wish to be sad, but it happens. I lose the uphill battle of  gaining composure. Those are the days, I feel absolute weakness. It numbs me.
At the end of my session, there’s a calm of fresh scent that intrigues me. Maybe this is my body’s signal to let go and move on from things that held me back? To allow myself to heal despite avoiding every word, action and comfort from people I love, when I preach about healing – why has it taken me so long to love myself harder? That the scars on my soul are a reminder of the fighter I was, I am and will be?
In the fight with surviving, you learn to accept your mistakes, the pain and the suffering and realize how far you’ve come from days  when you wouldn’t muster courage of waking up to yet another day. I know how hard it is for you to cry, to let your guard down, because of the past. The experiences were unnerving, it made you lose your self confidence, if you had any, to begin with. You were mocked, bullied and humiliated when it wasn’t necessary. Yet, you took it in your stride. But oh, well, those damn scars are stubborn, aren’t they?

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