If so, then I love it

Let’s gist.

I have always loved writing. Not poetry nor stories. Mostly, it was about how life had been so far and how I saw the world.

As a child, I did not talk much; I thought a lot. You go out to play, encounter harsh or strange things. You do not know if you should tell or not.

Would they listen to your point without telling you it is your fault. If they just listen without beating you, at least you would manage but then, you get beaten too. So, I kept my gist to myself. Always watching and speaking less.

So I started to write what I saw down. I wrote them on papers. When, I realized I could not keep the papers, I bought a diary. On days I felt some heavy weight in my heart and on my shoulders, I’d pen those feelings down and become ok. Maybe, it was therapy. If so, I love it.

From letters to God to things I was afraid to tell, I wrote them down. But then, my diaries had no locks, so friends began to take them to read. Some read out loud. I tore and threw them away and back to default settings I went, keeping them in my head.

When it hurts too much, I sit alone in the dark, and talk to the moon, with nobody. Some people would ask, are you ok? Yes, I would say and it is true, I am ok. I don’t feel the pain in my chest anymore. Maybe, it was a therapy. If so, I love it.

You might say, why don’t you try talking to someone you trust? I did ,but I heard it the next day on the mouth of another person. Maybe I should’ve added, “Don’t tell”. No. If I wanted to tell a multitude, I would have gathered a multitude . I told Chiku ( a pet), it listened, it understood and its eyes reassured me. Then it died.

I have kept too much in my head and my chest is full, it aches. I dont share my issues because you can’t solve them. You give me half attention because yours is eating you up too. Our problems multiplied.

I need therapy, you need it too. Last time, Pappy took his life because he could not bear the pain in his chest. Guess he thought nobody would understand him. And when he told someone, they told someone too. He needed a therapist. A therapist who wouldn’t make him feel guilty. Someone to just listen and reassure. A moon, Chiku.

So here I am, sitting in the dark, typing to an unknown reader. Even if they don’t see it, my chest is empty. Maybe typing is therapy. If so, I love it.

Martha Dokyi

just a crazy billionaire


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