One day someone will hug you so hard that all the broken parts of you will finally fall back into place…
I really believed in it, that there are hugs that heal. Hugs that blind broken bones and long-shattered ideals. Embraces in which we rediscover lost parts of ourselves. Hugs in which we are always at home.
Now, I know that no one else can cure you, no matter how tightly they hug you. They can’t even find everything that’s broken somewhere deep inside you until you reach for it with your own hands and cut yourself on those pieces in the process.
And only when you begin to piece together this mosaic of your own soul with the fragments you extract from the darkest and completely forgotten parts of your own personality, you realize that it has always been exclusively your task, your mission.
And that’s why you can’t be a healing hug either, because we all have to go through some paths on our own. And until we gather the courage to step on them and resist our fears, no hand extended towards us can pull us out of the darkness. Everyone must want to see the light for themselves.
Sometimes I think the worst thing we can do to a man is giving love he didn’t ask for and suffocating by trying to be a balm for all his wounds. But some wounds bleed and the balm is not enough.
Some wounds are so deep that blood sticks to all sides, and even when we patch them with surgery, it takes a long time for the tissue to grow in the depths and nothing is ever the same again. Even as years and years go by, the wounded spot is always somehow more sensitive, the skin under the fingers trembles to the touch, and the scar is always a few shades lighter and colder than the rest of our being.
The people we love from us often need time and patience and that is what we are by no means willing to give them because life is rushing. The world pushes us forward, gives us ultimatums on how we should go through it, what dreams and ideals we should strive for and how we will be unaccepted and pushed to the margins if we do not strive for everything that others do. So we try to keep up and at the same time be an outstretched hand to those we love.
And it doesn’t work. It always cracks somewhere.
At some point you realize that you will never reach the demands of people and the world because they are not yours anyway, and you will not be able to heal the wounds of those you love because you are just a balm and they need suturing and time to heal. So you stop. You let the world roll in its rhythm, people chase their dreams, and you catch your pace, pull your fingers towards you and stop suffocating with excessive love.
Sometimes I think we try so hard to patch others up, so we don’t have to patch ourselves up, because it’s inconceivable to us to have wounds and depths in which we’ve scattered like glass. We justify this delusion with our youth. We realize that from those barely a few decades we have lived we cannot be wounded as someone who has a lifetime behind us, but then we realize that in a few months someone can live and survive more than someone in a hundred years. And that this is just another misconception of a society that thinks that years also bring knowledge, and in fact bring only wisdom to some to better understand their own choices. Most don’t actually bring in that much.
Some women have an even greater flare, that deep need to be saviors, to fix everything they can with their love and understanding, that, on the man they have chosen to love, but in fact… they have an abyss within them that only healthy self-love can fulfill, because when you love yourself enough and rightly you have no need to save someone who has never asked you to.
Men, on the other hand, often wander from lip to lip, body to body, looking for something most similar to what hurt them and burned them inside, refusing to realize that what made them sick will not cure them.
These are all misconceptions that everyone is entitled to, but as long as we nurture them, as long as we embrace that darkness, we are unable to find our light and no hug will be our cure and we will not be able to build our home with anyone else.
There may be hugs that heal, but only when we have found enough of our traumas and healed ourselves. There may be loves as big as the universe that can extinguish darkness and ignite a spark in any interior, but they only come to life when we love ourselves enough that we can radiate that love. While we have too little for ourselves, what else but darkness can we give to the world? What can we give them but our own hunger to belong, somewhere, to something and to someone?
What can we be to another being if we have not embraced our own tightly?
Just a weight, a load, a stumbling block and nothing more. The one we are trying to save will never look at us with grateful eyes or see salvation in us, but only a glare that deafens and blinds them, without enough understanding that some eyes are too long in the dark and need time… time to get used to the light again.