I have done others wrong and I have been wronged. I have met and left people. A gift and a curse, that I have been. My words and actions – and lack thereof – have been, for a time, somebody’s pain and I am deeply sorry for those as I look back on the memories of years gone by.
Sometimes I wish there is an easy way of doing away with my pride and reaching out to the people who, in the past, have become really important. Central, even, to who I am. I wish I can embrace them and tell them how much I regret how things turned out for us when there are better ways to deal with what we let tear us apart.
How bittersweet it is coming across photos of our better days, causing memories to come flooding in. How the realization that it is only among the once-were hurts.
I wish to meet them again one day if only to call it quits, if only to strike the shortest of short conversations, if only to start anew.
Then there are those whose transience left me permanent scars anyway. Their words just cut deep – strangers they may be. Yes, I am the odd one out. Yes, I am not fit for this or that.
At some point, I have replayed those scenes in my head, feeling the pain, feeling the anger. But I have grown up now and have accepted that what others think of me is nothing that I should ever feel sorry for.
The only apology I cannot give or accept as of yet is the one from my greatest wrongdoer: me.
I know I deserve an apology for the times I castigated myself when things run out of my control and I am unable meet my expectations. I deserve an apology every time I call myself a failure, a mess, or a wreck, even when I am not. I deserve an apology for the times that I made myself believe that I am less than who I am. I deserve an apology for the times I have ever thought that I’d be better off with a noose, or a slash, or a bullet. I continue to try to embrace myself just as I am, but as of yet, the sinister mind won’t lose.