It has been said that time heals all wounds.
But does it though?
With each passing day, month and year, I have greater doubt. Even now, as I sit-up in bed so bloody early in the morning to be considered night, the haunting hurt refuses to let me sleep. And I so want sleep and rest. Instead, my mind is flooded with thoughts of the rejection that cut to the soul. Why? Because my brain hates me.
When one experiences rejection when at their most open and vulnerable state, it hurts so differently. There’s not so much aching anger as there is numbing devastation, a shock to the system in such a way as to destroy your very consciousness if accepted. I’ve had my heart broken before, but this … this is something different. It’s haunting my mind.
If someone smiles at me, I frown and immediately think that if that person knew how much of a horribly worthless person I am they wouldn’t waste their energy. I take every act of generosity or kindness with a mountain of fervent suspicion. There is no way that what they think they see is reality. The truth meandering about inside this disgusting shell is a repugnant mess, a soul unwanted by any deity or soul-recycling, hungry lizard people.
This is more than just petty self-deprecation; this is a hard, dark core. With everything else shattered, it is all that remains. I cannot trust anyone; the risk is too great. There’s nothing left to buffer me from utter devastation, to die eternally, without a single bit of physical damage. It is death of the conscious, the soul, the essence, only to leave an unmarred husk behind.
It is difficult to describe what I face; therefore, my brain haunts me with reminders to ensure I never trust anyone again, that I keep everyone far away, for if they ever knew how much of a mutated monster hides within, their resulting repulsion would obliterate what little of me perseveres. The slightest ripple or breeze would spell doom. What fragments that remain are too fragile to even touch, let alone handle long enough to glue them back together.
So I’ve been trying to get myself to accept that I will die alone. It may be today or a century from now, but I will be alone, maybe not physically but emotionally. It still pains me to acknowledge it; much work remains. However, I want to be okay with it because this way I can continue to live until this body fails me; the alternative is annihilation of the soul, spirit, chi, atman, self, whatever one wants to call it.
In short, no. Time cannot repair all wounds; some cuts leave nothing left to repair. The only hope is to prevent further damage.