detachment

 

I got detached. I am detached. I was not always detached. I didn’t know I could be.

“Do you know how to play football.” He was condescending in his words when he asked me. I only noticed this now. I felt it then.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Yes, I do. I know how to love. So of course I know my way around a tooth, and how to make it hurt less. I have practiced my whole life, finding ways to hurt less.

The nurse injects me with a needle meant for kids. It still hurts. I still wince. Pain is something my body can never get used to.

“I asked you to work on this certain patient because I know you’re good at communication.” Yes, I know. But knowing is never enough. Every human touch imparts a memory of pain into me. I am a healthcare professional, but before that I am a healer.

 

“I am so sorry.” A statement always followed by hugs. I’ve given hugs to people who gave me memories of pain ever since I was a kid. My mother’s friend’s son is my bully, and I give him my burger in exchange for plain crackers. I didn’t know I’d be doing this my whole life; loving too hard, too much and not knowing I’m being deprived of the establishment of a worth in the name of being nice.

“Are you up?” No, I am not. In fact, I am not even going to reply to you. I know I am up. But I am not up for you. Thus, I am not up, as far as your knowledge of my existence is concerned. I am awake. I am learning how to be awake.

“Can you come to my brother’s wedding?” is something I should have known was an invitation away from the simple life I know. Fighting with my parents to let me go. I had to come back in the midnight as it rained. That night, I cried like a baby. And I finally started to fall in love with my skin.

“I don’t want to” is something I know is more in line with how I feel. It is a valid response.

 

The next step is to say “I don’t like you.” I hope I can like myself enough to say that, and save myself from myself.

----------

Image via Republic by Omar Farooq