I used to run. From truth. From pain. Mainly from myself.
When I look into a mirror, I see someone I don’t want to face. I build walls, high, thick and ice cold, convincing myself that they are there to protect me. But truthfully, I am just hiding. Scared that if anybody saw the real me, they’d end up leaving. Just like I predicted, they always would.
Though I kept telling myself that I was fine, my suppressed silence was screaming louder than any kind of cry for help. I was running.
Running from love, because love only meant vulnerability. Running from the parts of me which needed some attention. Running from the possible parts of healing, because that only ever meant pain. Thought if I ignored them long enough, they’d just disappear. They didn’t.
One night, alone with absolutely nothing but my own silenced thoughts with a loop of many regrets, the quiet voice that I kept silencing—it was not desperate, not angry or frustrated. It was just honest.
“Don’t run from me,” it spoke. It was me. Talking to me.
I stopped. I let the weight of everything that I buried rise to the bare surface—the fear, the brokenness, the sadness which I wore like my own type of armour.
I used to think running would save me, prevent me from having to feel. But I see now, I was not running to be free. I was running from freedom.
I’m done. I am done running. Now, I walk towards myself. The truth. Toward love that doesn’t come bound with chains. I don’t have all of the answers, but I am still healing. But I have stopped hiding because for the first time, I believe that I am worth staying for.