Stay Safe, Stay Sane, bitch. Cause you ain't never fucking leaving.

 There is a good ass reason why I only started healing after I left for college. And definitely not by fucking choice. The reason why I could allow myself to break, be reckless, be suicidal, be harmful to myself, and put myself through each and every layers of hell in college, was because I had the freedom to be.

Because I had the freedom to finally fucking break like a fucking normal person, instead of repressing every single fucking thing and shoving them all inside a glass bottle and putting them up on the trauma shelf.

Because if I had never chose to leave my home, my family, my hometown, I would never be granted the freedom to break. I would have been required to keep my shit together, to keep my façade intact, keep my fucking apathy wielded like a weapon to keep me alive. Because there were people who needed me to be stable, little ones who needed me to lie to myself so that I can protect them. There were people who needed me to be less selfish, less reckless, less suicidal.

And I would have resented the fuck out of them eventually, if that had happened.

The relief after the first few nights of sleeping in the college dorms, knowing I have no responsibility beyond myself in the morning. Knowing that even if I sleep in late, I won't be scolded for sleeping in and "being lazy", I won't be scolded for not taking care of my little siblings. I won't be scolded for not doing my chores, or not taking my shower. Knowing that even if I don't eat, I won't be scolded for wasting food.

The relief that I could finally break, the way I should have been.

And so I broke.

I allowed myself to break. 

I gave myself the free reigns to cut my skin open, and breathe in relief as I finally watch the blood runs down my arms. I gave myself the green lights to be selfish, to not eat if I don't feel like eating, even if it had been four days since I ate anything. I gave myself the freedom to imagine myself dead and rotting, without guilt shadowing the next day. 

I allowed my trauma to run through its course, poison my every breath and every thought.

So that I would be able to see the light at the end of the stupid fucking tunnel.

My freedom allowed me to sit in my emotions, the horror and suffering and agony. And so when everything had run its course, I was finally........finally able to breathe, and cry.

And the fact that in every stage of my freedom, Sara was there to watch me break.

She was there when I had spent the night cutting my arms into ribbons, blood on my mattress, and I was unresponsive in the morning. I had missed our morning class, and she came into my room to check up on me, and saw me in a blank, unresponsive state. She called Miza, and they both took me to the health centre and got my arms patched up. 

She was there when I was sent to the health centre 3 times again the next consecutive days, my arms bloody and scarred.

She was there when I texted her in a delirious state, my head down in the toilets after swallowing every single pill I have on me, and she was there when I woke up in my own vomit after failing to overdose.

She was there to remind me to eat, check whether I have merely forgotten or I just did not have any appetite. 

She was there when I lashed out and slept in my own blood for 4 days without waking up for food or water, merely sending me messages in the morning checking whether I have woken up or not.

She was there when I blanked out, having my flashbacks in public, and sat with me until they have ended.

She was there when I had not slept for 3 days because my insomnia had gotten worse.

She was there when I made the decision to take a step forward and start seeing a psychiatrist. 

She was there when I made the decision to acknowledge that I needed help, and started taking my medicine. 

She was there when I got better, and started to talk more about my emotions rather than bottling them up.

No matter whether I have eaten just a hashbrown that day, or nothing at all, she was still there. My family had never seen any problems with my eating habit, because I never allowed myself to display what I feel around them. We were taught as children to never waste food, and as a child, I was always scolded to finish my food. And so I learned to always finish the food in front of me, no matter what it is or how it tasted. I learned to eat 3 times a day, because if I don't, I will be scolded for not eating anything. And so I learned to never display what I feel with food, around my family. I merely follow a set of beaten routine, to appear normal. 

But in college, I was allowed to forgo food. I was allowed to just have coffee or tea for the day. I was allowed to drink nothing but one mug of tea for a week straight, and nobody will scold me. Sara would still be there regardless whether I have eaten rice that day, or coffee. 

She knows my relationship with food, is about me punishing myself. I do not consider eating to be a priority, simply because food was a luxury I did not condone myself to have. She is aware some days, my mind rejects the notion of me supplying nutrients to my body. That my trauma supplies me with guilt and shame over having a healthy body. 

On the days I eat, she was there to eat with me. On the days I don't, she was there to ask. On the days I feel like a coffee is all I want, she was there as I take my coffee. 

Now, after all of the healing I have done, my relationship with food has definitely never been better. For the entire year of 2022, I had a stable routine of eating habits, and I am proud of my cooking progress. Still, going into 2023, I still have some bad days where the thought of food makes me nauseous.

But since I have healed enough, I was able to visualize food after food after food in my head, finding anything that doesn't make my gut churn and inducing vomit in my chest. After I found one, I was able to force myself to make them, and it was a little less nauseous after I had the first spoonful.

Sara is still here to tell me she was proud of me for that.