January 12 -- Write about acceptable losses.

As a kid, I was particularly clumsy (some things never change). I fell down a lot, would hurt myself, thought this never prevented me from going on more adventures the moment a Band-Aid was attached to my skin. Up a tree, through the woods, in the swamp -- wherever I hadn't been before, or else the places I loved most.
Whenever I would get a scrape, or a bruise, or a cut, I remember always pressing on the wound, fascinated by the pain I could both start and stop like one would with a car. If I pushed down on a paper cut with my finger, it would throb with awful purple and gray pain. But just as quickly, as I released the pressure, the hurt would dissipate. Never all at once -- there were always lingering aches. Sure enough, though, if I waited patiently, it would soon be as if the stinging had never occurred.
Until I brought it back.

I guess you could say that he was my paper cut.
I could never seem to fully appreciate how much pain he caused me unless I was with him. I was in control of the situation, too -- It was always me who said when. When to be together, when to break up. But I never could stop pressing down on that paper cut, forcing myself to feel the old pain again, with its strange comfort in familiarity, knowing that for once, I was in control of some aspect of my life. I was Shiva, able to create and destroy on a whim. I guess a part of me loved that power, as much as it tore up the rest of me.

My mom always told me, "Stop messing with your cuts, or they'll get infected." Rarely did I listen, but I escaped unscathed more often than not. Until him. Sometimes wounds don't enjoy being toyed with, and he had had enough. A simple fascination somehow turned to love, but the infection had already begun and was spreading, straight towards my heart. There was that hitch in time where my heart is convinced that the world is ending, but the brain shares the awful news that the world is not ending, as much as I want it to.
I felt confused, diseased, dying. The superficial wound had caused violent illness throughout my body, a genocide on my thoughts, a decaying of my dreams. I swore I would never let this happen again.

Some naive part of me, the part that always has faith in others, the part that never learns -- She's always encouraging me, saying, "Maybe if you keep pressing down, don't let up, it'll stop hurting by itself." I have to remind myself that she doesn't know any better, not like I do.
The more dangerous voice is that of my self-degrading mindset. Claiming that I don't deserve any better, so why not take what I can get? Sure, it may destroy me someday...But at least I won't be alone.
It's never easy to shut down the different opinions in one's mind, but it must be done. The heart must drown out the head, so to speak. Yes, the scar of him is still there. It will occasionally demand my attention for a few minutes. My gaze may stray to it on an unforgiving nostalgic evening.
I just have to put on a Band-Aid, keep living my adventures, and wait for time to heal it.