Self-Affliction

It's amazing how I can spend an entire day with friends, laugh, talk, eat and shop together only to come back, read a few paragraphs on a blog, and feel so damn alone and depressed.

You see, the difference between her (ironically an atheist) and me, is that she knows how to blame him. She knows how to get sad because of him, get angry at you, curse and swear at the both of you, and listen to the advice of those around her. She can convince herself that she'll find someone better, convince herself that the both of you won't last, and look forward to returning to UK where she'll be miles away from her worries.

I, on the other hand, must be suffering from a unmovable stubbornness, an extremely high-level stupidity, and less faith in God than she has in herself. I can't bring myself to blame you. I don't know what I should be sad about, I'm not angry at him, I'm not the curse-and-swear type, and the advice of others are totally falling on deaf ears. I get angry at God, only to be told that God is God and knows best and is always right, so I must be wrong. And thus I'm angry at myself. Angry for being a self-pitying loser, angry for still having trouble sleeping at night, angry that I can't take my mind of you, angry that I'm not good enough to protect your fragile heart when I had the chance, angry that so many other people still talk behind your back, angry that I'm angry with God whom I still think is withholding healing from you for reasons I still don't understand.

I can't convince myself of anything, thus my prayers are filled with the hope that he is the one, that through the grace of God the relationship between the both of you will last. But prayer without faith, what is that?

Some people are known to take out pen knives or little sharp objects to cut themselves, just to know that they're alive, to temporarily replace the emotional pain with a physical one. Healing is not on their minds, maybe deep down inside they don't want to heal. Once, twice, and the cycle repeats, again and again.

No one is hurting me but myself. And for the hundredth time since a month ago, I'm still plunging the knife into my own heart, cutting deep into the soul, twisting the blade so that the pain turns from excruciation to sadistic pleasure. The wounds that He healed just a moment ago, I open up again, like a little child who keeps smashing the tower that his parents painfully rebuild again and again, laughing and giggling at the destruction.

Somewhere, deep inside me, I still hope. When I think of you, the knife becomes stained with blood again. The candle of hope relights once more within me, and I draw closer to Him who heals.

With the blade still in my hands.