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Whenever I learn that someone is in deep pain for whatever reason, I find myself internally frozen, not knowing what to say… or how to react. Of course, I want to comfort them and try to make them feel a bit better, but my mind is mostly unsure of how to do or say it. What if I say the wrong thing? What if a hug will make them cry even more? What if.. What if…

I do try my best, but it still feels worrisome every single time.

Then as I was reflecting on it, I asked myself… “How do I deal with my own pain?”

And I realized that in most parts, I don’t.

I am a highly sensitive person. I feel things deeply. Probably more deeply than others. The intensity of the feelings I feel is usually too much for my heart to handle.

When I am happy, I feel how my chest expands, as if it will burst with good energy anytime. But when I am sad, I feel the hollowness inside of me, as if a part of my heart is being carved out. These emotions sometimes become too intense that I realized, there are moments when I intentionally try to minimize them and/or push them to the side.

“Nah, this is not a big deal.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to this.”

“Whatever. I’ll get over this soon.”

“Dwelling on this is just a waste of it.”

“Ugh. Is this ever worth crying over for?”

Those are just some of the lines I tell myself over and over until I get used to the feeling… until I forget about the unwanted feelings.

It works… for a time being.

But there are days when they all unearth themselves and remind me of what I’ve been trying to avoid. And the pain… the rage.. the guilt… they would all feel like a fresh cut once again.

Grief comes in waves.

Sometime we feel okay. Sometimes we feel reborn. But sometimes we feel like dying.

It sucks. It’s hard. And until now, as I am reflecting on my own grief, I still feel lost. I still don’t know how to handle these big emotions.

But life goes on.

It won’t stop… even when I feel like mine did.

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<center><b>herkeepsake</b></center></h4> 
<center> <i>This is M's online journal. Join her as she reminisce memories, discover new things, or simply vomit words on pages. Sometimes she is an artist; other times she is the art.
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