Please Heal My Broken Heart

I met a girl once. She was beautiful, full of life and enthusiasm. She loved to write and to meditate and connect with animals and the whole world. She smiled always and would treat everyone she met with kindness. However, behind all that sweetness lay deep wounds. Wounds that tormented her in the night.

She tells me that sometimes she would cry without knowing why. She narrated to me all about her awful childhood, when she felt the most helpless and alone. I asked her, “where were your parents?” I know her parents very well. Her father is a prominent philanthropist who traveled to remote areas of the world to help people with food and build schools and wells. Her mother, a very pleasant and sweet lady who is kind and compassionate towards ants and other animals, is my closest friend. I could not understand what my friend was explaining to me. I felt alone, neglected and abandoned to the harsh world all by myself. I did the most part of raising myself. I could not experience what it feels like to go home and see a happy, united family. I do not know how it feels like to be shown affection by my father. She went on and on. I listened, my ears burning from all the pain infused within her words, I have never felt so guilty as I felt in that moment. The only complaint I have about my childhood is that my sister was getting more attention than me. Who could tell that there are others who would wish to simply see parents when they come back home from school? Did I take my parents for granted.(Sorry mum and dad).

Her ordeal made me think of all the things we take for granted in our lives. I promised to stay grateful for every thing I have, no matter how obvious or simple it is.

The things which shocked me the most when she was telling me her story, was the fact that even now, when she is 27 years old, she still struggles with getting any sign of affection from her father, who was absent throughout her life. She suffered immensely from low self esteem and confidence. Mostly she felt worthless. When everyone outside would praise her and her talent or the fact that she did law and is eloquent, has her own site and pursues her own hobby, all these things people were amazed about her, sounded alien to her. It was as if they were describing someone else. I would feel as if they had it all wrong about who I was. For how could an unloved child who could not be loved by her own father and who did not have any family growing up, be all those amazing things they were saying? I felt a hard lump form in my throat as I fought to stop my tears from falling. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her wake up, see how beautiful and accomplished and talented you are. I wanted to confess to her how I envy her for all that she is. I hoped at least this would reassure her of her worth, make her feel important. But the words could not come out of my mouth as I fought back the stabbing pain in the lamp pressing my throat.

How do people suffer so much so young? How many wounds do we hide from ourselves and the world and put up a smile when we are dying and crying for help on the inside? Who heals our hearts when we have so much pain and suffering? Who heals our minds from all the distorted beliefs about our own unworthiness? For how long will we remain victims of those who have more power than us, those who were meant to have mercy on us and love us?

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