We’ve all lost something. Especially after losing someone we love. We lose a part of ourselves the moment we lose those who are lost. We become lost ourselves. They aren’t the only ones that’s lost but also the person we are when we were with them.
It’s mind boggling how we lose a part of ourselves when we lose the person we love. Is it because we give them that part of ourselves? Or is it because we throw it away to please that person? Is it something that’s unlovable and unwanted? Or is it something that’s too precious so we give it away out of pure love, put trust in that person to take care of it, but they end up abusing it?
To love is to lose, to love is to hurt. To love is to sacrifice, to love is to endure. But who in their right minds believe that these are the definitions of love? If we love, why do we have to lose? What do we have to lose? The ones we care about? The ones we don’t? Ourselves? If we love, why does it have to hurt? Who do we hurt the most? The ones we love? Or the ones that love us? If we love, why do we sacrifice? What do we sacrifice? The most precious thing we have? Our sanity? If we love, why do we endure? Why do we endure mistreatment? Why do we endure one sided love? Why do we endure the things we don’t deserve? If we believe these things, then I guess we’re all insane. To love is to love ourselves. That’s what love is supposed to be.
To lose someone is to lose ourselves. At first I didn’t want to admit that I was lost. But the moment I realized that I was drowning myself with loads of school works and unnecessary things, I had to tell myself to pause for a moment and just feel. Right then and there, I realized that I didn’t just lose the person I loved. I also lost the person I was before I loved that person.
I’m a person who not once let herself grieve a lost. That’s not something to be proud of but it sure kept me alive. Well, it’s killing me inside but at least I still look alive on the outside. And if given a chance to grieve once, even just for a damn second, I’d rather the lost eat me alive than do something that’s not going to change anything. I’d rather let my insides rot and hope for the best that one day, I’ll share the same fate as my damned soul. I couldn’t even allow myself to cry, for the life of me.
But that is ridiculous. Aren’t I insane enough? What could possibly go wrong with just shedding a tear or two every three seconds of every three hours of each day until it leaves my eyeballs and throat dry? If it’s only going to do me good, why would I restrict myself from doing so? I’ve been unkind to myself for so long that the least decent thing left for me to do is to let myself grieve.
Perhaps, to love me. To let go of the person I was when I loved that person. To accept that I lost and to love what that lost made who I am today. Because this is love. And if this is what love is supposed to feel like, I love love. And I love how I love me.
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