I Don’t Cry Over It Anymore

I Don’t Cry Over It Anymore

I was a bearer of pain, disillusion, and betrayal.
It came so often, so constantly,
that at one point—
it stopped hurting.

Or maybe it didn’t.
Maybe I just stopped feeling it.

So I endured it.

That pain made me build walls.
Not to isolate myself—
to protect myself.

I couldn’t trust anyone anymore.

So I became my own friend.

I learned to accept myself.
To live with the echoes of those voices from the past.

And then—
I learned how to shut them off.

The day I stood in front of the mirror
and heard nothing—

that’s when I became aware of myself.

I started learning how to live with my moods.
Some days happy.
Some days not.
Some days productive.
Some days empty.

There’s something strange about learning yourself
when you are the only one
who truly understands you.

No outside opinions.
No voices that don’t belong.

Who are they to know
what happens inside my head at 3 a.m.
when my brain refuses to stop?

And still—
even with that—

I learned how to manage my own machinery.

You study it.
You observe it.
You catch it
right when it tries to turn on you.

Its strongest weapon:

old memories.

That’s when it starts again.

Why?
How?
What if?
Was it my fault?
Was I to blame?

And the spiral begins—
out of nowhere.
No trigger.

Like something throws a file at you and says:

Read it.
Live it again.
Don’t forget.

I wish there was a way
to soften those memories.
To dilute them.
To quiet them enough
so they don’t hurt the same.

They say we need them to grow.
To learn.
To not repeat the same mistakes.

But when a memory comes back
only to hurt you—

that’s something else.

They tell you to manage it.
To stop it.
To replace it
with something better.

For some people, that works.

For me—

I write.

I take it out of me.
I put it somewhere else.

And when it’s out—
I’m done.

No explanations.
No conversations.
No one asking questions.

I just write it.

And for some reason—
that works for me.