P.S. to Goodbye

This one's probably like a very yappy long P.S of my substack post I've posted, which is here. I don't know what got into me specifically, but I guess once again, this person's cup got so full at one point, and she needed to let it out there. So, I guess this chapter would still be part of it. 

I got so, so, so terrified even about the simplest things in life after a trauma. This trauma has led me to a lot of rollercoasters—more than rides I’ve actually ridden (I only ever took one, and I closed my eyes during it, so maybe it doesn’t count). But yeah, there were ups and downs I’ve been through, and most of them cracked a new code about who I am internally—or showed who I could possibly become. I don’t really know.

To me, I was never this scared of saying things. In fact, I said almost everything just to be clear about everything. Though there’s a valid reason why this became a part of me now. The trauma and the pain made me even more pessimistic about my own capability of making even the smallest decision because of what it cost me in the past. I was so insecure—I admit that quite directly nowadays—though there was a time when I got so embarrassed by it that I hid it. I am so insecure, I don’t want people to see me lacking in anything (we all know that’s impossible). I did open that side of me to one or two people. I don’t like being reminded that there are things I don’t know or am not aware of. I KNOW, I’M NOT PROUD OF IT EITHER, IT’S DISGUSTING. THAT’S WHY I HID IT, UGH.

And also, this ego I’ve had—it’s taller than my height. I don’t want to lose; I love winning. With the closest person, partner, best friends, siblings, you name it—I should win. That’s another nasty thing I’m not very proud of. This is where I draw one of the lines between the cost of trauma and the blessing I was granted from it.

I noticed this a week ago, I guess, when a very good friend of mine came to me for relationship advice. We had many things in common, especially when it came to novice experiences like this. She said she got super sensitive, and it ruined the vibes. I once regretted how I treated a special person around me, only because of the nasty traits I’ve written about above. It ruined everything until the last day.

Can you imagine? I got so mad about the sudoku game—dammit—that one was a disgusting, self-absorbed thing I could do toward someone who accompanied me to a dental surgery, wasn’t it? She talked, and I talked about my experiences too, and how I see it now.

See, this is what I meant by the benefit of heartbreak. You learn about your mistakes, and most of the time you get embarrassed by them, but after that, you notice that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This perspective of seeing your lackings or your wrongdoings toward someone is granted by yourself and the universe. I’ve read so much about letting go, the “let them” theory, self-healing journeys, and many more, but nothing has been as helpful and as eye-opening as how the universe lets us see. How the universe puts people around us and lets us learn from them (in this case, my dearest friend).

That night with her unlocked a new ability that I had hidden for so long—exposing my mistakes and unveiling my spiteful traits. That’s just as beautiful as telling people what you like about a book or how your cats reacted to their new toys. Both are humane.

Then there came expectations. They’re far more vile than my traits. I don’t know where they came from, but they made everything unbearable. I struggled so much that I couldn’t adjust my reality to match the goals I had pictured. It’s pathetic, especially knowing that parts of those expectations had become irrelevant. It was hopeless and uncontrollable. I hate it. I’ve always been hard on myself; that’s nothing new. I’ve done it since I was little. But the ironic thing is, I got so hard on myself just for wanting to do things. I procrastinate a lot because I don’t think I’d fit in, be able, or deserve it. That made me extremely judgmental of everything. I’m also not the most optimistic, and that could easily drain me of energy. I don’t take many risks. I follow rules. I don’t experiment with major things. I don’t tweak. That’s shameful for someone who claims to be creative. I get cringed out easily. That’s why I learned English—so this could sound serious, less corny. Weirdo.

I got so sad and depressed, I pushed people away for four days straight. The ones who cared so much—I pushed them away, just to be alone. This was extreme. I didn’t go out. I barely ate. I didn’t wash my face, let alone shower. I didn’t answer texts or calls. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to be gone. Disappear. Possibly die. I needed to escape. I needed somewhere, anywhere, far away. I didn’t want anyone poking around. Funny enough, I used to like the idea of being alone but with company. But after the tsunami, I punished myself to be alone all the time. It was like I didn’t deserve happiness. Vulnerability had shifted—people had seen enough. Letting them see more would cost me more, or at least that’s what I thought. I became avoidant. I didn’t want to share. I wanted to shut down. I wanted to be sucked into the supermassive black hole, Sagittarius A, to be spaghettified, to disappear slowly into its event horizon. I didn’t get to decide. But I love all of them, and I love them so, so much. I don’t think they would deserve all of it.

It’s hard when the universe puts you in a situation that makes you question your entire existence, especially after the tsunami. There were waves. I sailed them, got lost in them, and almost died a few times. But I thought I’d learned how to swim. Then the waves grew bigger, and I saw debris, a shipwreck, or something. I wanted to grab it, but it was caught in the current. Reaching for it would only pull me under. Some things, I realized, I have to let go. I didn’t say I did—how could you let go of something you still cherish so much? But then again, it was just debris, right?

It wasn’t just longing or missing someone—it was the weight of everything I carried. The hopes, expectations, things I thought I should’ve done, the life I thought I should’ve built by now. And then the trigger: leaving, moving on. It triggered everything all over again. I realized how fragile I still am, how much of me is held together by threads I can’t even see. That sucks. And you can’t do anything about it other than feel it, let it quietly break you, let it fool you into thinking you’re okay, even while crushed by reality. That really sucks. I don’t even know when the cycle ends.

The worst part comes when you feel like you should explain everything. I mean, you shouldn’t have to, but you feel like you owe them. You’d die of curiosity if you were in their shoes. That justifies your discomfort in explaining the storms. But you don’t want to. Surviving them was already enough. You just want to be alone in peace. It’s weird how avoidant you become after everything. I felt messier than I used to be. I shared some parts of it with friends, and they responded in ways that felt almost opposite to empathy. Maybe that’s what I’m scared of. I don’t think teaching people to swim when they’re drowning is the solution. Just hand me a lifebuoy, or your hand, maybe?

And then came the guilt—the guilt of letting people who genuinely cared about me feel abandoned because of my selfish need to isolate myself. Having experienced both sides, I’ve become more sympathetic toward the people I love. But I’ve also learned that, just like gaining respect for yourself can sometimes mean sacrificing respect for others, choosing yourself might break their heart. Still, that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve done the wrong thing. And if you did—so what? We all had our firsts or seconds or thirds until we gathered more to finally live better. We knew nothing until the universe taught us more.

That’s how I also learned about forgiveness. I don’t need people to ask for it; I will forgive when I can, and when I’m ready. To me, just dealing with the pain of my own shortcomings is already hard enough. But in learning to forgive myself, I started seeing the small steps I was also taking toward forgiving others. I’ve made mistakes—I might not have seen them when I committed them, but I see them now. And that’s not something I should dwell on for the rest of my life. At first, I denied them, but eventually I accepted them as parts of my soul, which could involve isolation. It was my first, it was theirs too, and playing the blame game won’t take us anywhere. It was ours to share, and we both carried our part of the blame. And that’s okay now.

So, if I need time for myself, I’ll let them know. After the isolation, I’ll let them know when I need space and when I need to be with myself. I’ll reach out when I’m ready. That’s how I ideally hope to behave in the future. Because even when I shut them out, they still knocked on my door, dropped off food, checked up on me, texted me, and called me. And all I gave in return was silence, while they slid a chocolate bar with a pep talk on a sticky note under my door. 

I couldn’t sleep because I cried so much my eyes burned when I closed them. But after the storm passed, I noticed something. I slept a LOT during it, even though my eyes were scorched afterward. Maybe because of Allah’s mercy, Ar-Rahim, the Most Merciful, as mentioned in Q.S. Ali Imran: 154:

“Then after distress, He sent down serenity in the form of drowsiness overcoming some of you…”

And that was probably the only kind of love I couldn’t push away at that moment—well, that and the chocolate bar too.