I’m sorry it hurts right now.
The wound is fresh. And while I wish there were some way that I could just make the pain go away, I can’t.
No one can.
It’s going to hurt you every time you think of it. Sometimes this will happen at weird moments. When you’re least expecting it. When you encounter a small detail that only has the most passing commonality with what happened to you.
And when that happens, you’ll feel like you’re dying. Your stomach will twist into knots. Your chest will grow heavy. All of you will hurt. And ache. And hurt.
I’m sorry. I know it hurts.
And I know that it’s going to continue to hurt. Over and over again.
Sometimes it will feel like it’s never going to get better. It will feel like it’s just as fresh and raw and painful as the first time it hurt.
But it will get better. There will come a point when you realize it hurts a little less. Even just a bit less. You’ll notice.
It’ll still hurt you. But not as much.
One day it’ll probably hurt you very little.
But before it does, before it gets there, it’s going to hurt you over and over again.
So many times.
I wish it weren’t that way. The only way around the pain is through it. And it’s not an efficient path. It’s not a direct one. There’s no high-speed train out of here. There aren’t even paved roads where you’re going. It’s overgrown, thorny, and dark.
You don’t even have a map.
I wish I had better news for you. But I don’t. I can’t give you better news without lying to you.
I can’t take the pain away.
The only thing I can do is be here while you’re hurting. I hope that’s enough.
Books by Page Turner: