"A thanks to all my tears
Who were always there in my darkest times when I was alone."
This book is not about my pathetic pitied self. Perhaps that's all they'll ever see me as, perhaps they'll always assume that I was the victim. Perhaps this will...
ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
Reece and I had a lot to talk about. I had a series of theories of what he felt. But I had them all buried deep in my head.
Don't hope, don't believe. I told myself. It's something I had been telling myself for months.
It'd been almost a year since Reece and I had broken up. And over a year since I have been myself. I don't even remember who I used to be.
How could I act like her when I don't even remember her?
Smile, Christiana. Pretend that you're happy, and one day, you might actually be happy.
One day...how much I craved for that one day. Why couldn't I have my priorities straight? Achieving in art used to make me happy, I stopped exhibiting.
Goofing around with my friends used to make me happy, now their company depresses me more.
Reece's company used to make me happy, now he just likes hurting me.
What made me happy?
Singing.
Sometimes art failed me, at that time, words prevailed. I liked writing songs, writing out my agony, and then singing it out loud.
But now, there were times I didn't have the strength to open my mouth. I didn't trust my voice. I could only hear the music, try to focus elsewhere while the pit in my stomach expanded.
When I used to genuinely feel happy, I used to feel sleep and hungry and cold.
But those humane parts of me just died, and I could then live on a handful hours of sleep, with practically no food, and I could pass my days just painting.
There were times you'd find me in the living room, hugging my knees, and staring at the floor, my thumb pressed over my wrist, slowly counting my heartbeats.
Raging on the inside, cursing that heart to stop. How could it beat so beautifully while bleeding so horrifically?
The audacity.
I had interpreted a long time ago that one day, loneliness would kill me. It would plague my body, weaken all my organs and then slowly force my heart to stop.
I was begging it to stop.
Why did I have to be so afraid of pain?
Why couldn't I be something one wouldn't think twice before killing? Why did I have to be that trophy people thought was made of diamond but was actually as fragile and invaluable as a glass?
Sometimes I felt like I hadn't accomplished anything.
When the president of the country was speaking of me, even though it was just for a minute during the ceremony, her words felt like they were for someone else. Like they were for that girl who actually deserved their applause, who actually painted to achieve, and not to take out her depression.
