Band-Aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes
*This post is about a very tough time in my life, it's brutally honest and some people may find it upsetting so yes just an FYI do not read if it will cause you upset*Taylor Swift recently released the song bad blood with the lyrics "Band-Aids don't fix bullet holes" and it is only recently that I understand why they resonate so much in my mind.
2 years ago, I got shot. Not shot with a literal gun but the pain was still earth shattering. My best friend killed himself. He woke up one morning and decided that was it, he couldn't go on. The night before we spoke about kangaroos and we were laughing hysterically.
When I found out I didn't cry, I merely shook.
I hid myself away in a corner of my room and didn't eat or sleep for two days. I remained as normal to my internet friend and no one came to check on me even though my internal organs were screaming; my blood rushing from me quicker than I could stop it.
I stopped thinking after two days, the numbness took over.
I was due to start my A levels a week or two later and for fear of having others watch me fall apart, I plastered over my bullet hole wound. I began eating again and came out of my corner to face the world.
The Band-Aid held until a few weeks into sixth form.
On a film we had to watch for driving awareness they played the song "Happy Ending" by Mika and my Band-Aid fell revealing the wound pouring with fresh blood and the old festering blood of the month I'd lived without him. You see "Happy Endings" was played at the funeral I wasn't invited to and was also the song that he danced to with his little sister in the middle of the kitchen at 1 o'clock in the morning.
This time I cried.
I thought that would be it, I thought that now I'd cried that I would finally heal so once again I Band-Aided over my wound as before.
Things carried on but I was always a step behind.
My wound slowing me down when everything else moved too fast. I got an infection in my mind that spread through my limbs and made it feel like every breath I took that he did not was a knife running down my windpipe. I cried myself to sleep when my infected mind would let me only to be confronted with recurring nightmares and knowing I'd always wake up to a world without him.
Everyday the infection affected more of me.
I tried to make up for not being there for him by being a whole army for others. I found people at the edge of the blade and pushed it away from them into myself. It still was not enough.
I tried to kill the infection by cutting it out but it only provided more areas for the infection to spread to. I ripped myself to shreds in the hope that he might use the shreds to return, to find a way back.
This never happened.
I hated my body for not being his, I hated my voice for not being his, I hated my laugh most of all so I tried not to use it.
I ripped the Band-Aid off myself one night, letting the rush of blood soothe me and take the last of my strength. It was a relief to feel empty once again and that relief made me sick.
When I realised I was still here I decided to build myself up again and fill myself with different things.
New memories, new thoughts, new poisons .
But I was still playing catch up, still one step behind everyone else. I made bad choices, bad friends, bad grade but I no longer felt the infection growing inside me. The infection was in the people who made me feel bad, made me feel like a failure. The people who killed me time and time again just so that they could feel better about themselves and their twisted behaviour. I left them behind when they reduced me to nothing.
This time I used two Band-Aids to cover up my wound; to keep myself from pulling off the Band-Aid.
I filled myself with this new love, new happiness and new life hoping and praying that it would heal my bullet hole. I caught up, I went forward and became the me that didn't waver around the edges. It was bliss, It was happiness, it was new and I was finally okay.
That was until the birthday I spent crying rather than celebrating, the anniversary I spent inside out afraid to lose control, blood seeping through my Band-Aid staining my skin.
It is now, 2 years and 4 days later I finally realise that no Band-Aid can truly fix a bullet hole. No amount of time will make me forget him or numb the pain of losing him.
Nothing can heal me. But maybe that's a good thing.
The Band-Aid remains in place so I can live without fear of catching my wound but it will never go and I will never get him back.
I can live without him and knowing that is the hardest thing.
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| Taken from Our Chemical Hearts |
