Journal of the Bereaved one: a glimpse into the inner heart of a friend

This is actually by my friend, so I hope you all enjoy it Sometimes I hate this love. It feels like it never lasts.Rejection sits like a thorn in my veins, sending clots through my thoughts, crowding my mind until I can hardly breathe.I wish people could see what I feel. Maybe they do. Maybe they sense it.I try to cover it, but they know me as the girl who is always frowning, the girl who is always sulking, the girl they ask, "What is wrong?"The truth is, sometimes I do not even know.I do not know if I am doing it on purpose or if the pain simply spills out of me.I want to tell them. I want to explain. I want to hand them my heart and say, "This is what hurts."But the words never come.And the funny thing is, I never want to hurt anyone. I hate hurting people. Yet somehow, I always seem to.I long for friendship. I have tasted it before, yet I want to run from it. Not because I am afraid— I have always been ready for new things— but because people kept leaving me.So I feel it is time for me to leave first, but I cannot.Should I?Those two girls I offended— it still hurts.I no longer laugh with them. I no longer talk with them. And I hate that feeling.Because I know that if things were different, we would be laughing together. I would be running toward them, though perhaps they would never run toward me.The truth is, they come when they need me, not when they long for a friend.So I am left with silence.They said we were friends. Sometimes I wonder if I was simply convenient— someone to talk to, someone to use, someone to keep around.I want to be free, but the gates refuse to open.I say hello to someone, and sometimes people ignore me. Such a small thing, yet it hurts more than it should.Maybe because it is not the first time. Maybe because I have carried this wound for so many years. Maybe because I am tired.I was supposed to be resilient. Yet I am tired. So tired.Sometimes I hate the way I look. It's weird, but it's true. I do not see who I want to see.Perhaps the life I wanted—or needed—was never given to me. Instead, it was filled with hurt, betrayal, fear, and hope. Some of that hurt came from family too.I tell God, "I'm sorry."Sorry for the attitude I did not mean to have. Sorry for the anger I did not mean to carry. Sorry for the things I did knowingly and unknowingly.And sometimes I imagine meeting Him. I imagine running from the very back, falling to my knees before Him, lifting my tear-filled eyes, and saying only one word:"Daddy."Then resting in the embrace I have always longed for.I long for good things. For warmth. For peace. For milk and honey, like the land He promised.I want people to do well. I truly do. I celebrate them. I admire them. I pray for them.Yet I also want to be among the best. And sometimes I fear that makes me selfish. Sometimes I fear it makes me arrogant. Sometimes I fear it makes me competitive.But the truth is, I simply want to matter.I know there will always be someone better than me at something. That does not hurt.What hurts is wondering whether I am enough.My nonchalance hurts people sometimes. My silence hurts people sometimes. My pain hurts people sometimes.And I hate that.Inside me, hurt and rage wrestle with hope. Love and fear walk hand in hand.I sulk. I cry. I scream.Then somehow, I laugh again.Hope always returns. It always returns.And maybe that is why I am still here. Maybe that is why I still believe. Maybe that is why, despite everything, I still wish, with all my heart,that one day, someone will truly see me.

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