There was a time when I thought suffering made me interesting.
Not in a performative way, not consciously. I didn’t sit down and say, “Yes, let me hold onto this misery and build my personality around it.” But looking back, I can see the way I wrapped myself in sadness like it was a safety blanket. Familiar. Soft in that cold way. Almost beautiful. I’d grown used to the weight of it pressing into me, molding to me, like it belonged.
I think I confused pain with depth. Like if I could hurt enough, I could prove I was real. I thought maybe if I held onto it long enough, it would solidify into art or redemption. Maybe even love.
But mostly, it just made me tired.
Suffering became my most committed relationship. Reliable in its own twisted way. It was always there when people left. When I failed. When I couldn’t find words or worth or will. And even when things were good, I’d still find my way back to it, like texting someone I shouldn’t at 2AM. “Hey. You up?”
And suffering always was.
I made excuses for it. I romanticized it. I told myself that being haunted made me whole. I called it poetry. I called it passion. I called it my truth. But really, it was just another version of hiding. A story I kept retelling even after it stopped being true.
There’s a comfort to what’s known, even when it hurts. I knew my sadness so well, I stopped bothering to imagine life beyond it. Like, why climb out when I’ve built a whole goddamn home down here?
But lately, I’ve been rethinking it all.
Something small and quiet in me, maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s boredom, is starting to ask for more. Not in some big Instagram-healing-energy-crystals-and-yoga-on-a-cliff kind of way. (No shade if that’s your thing, I’m halfway there...) But more like, What if I didn’t wake up already apologizing to the day? What if I didn’t default to disaster? What if I stopped trying to make my pain feel like home?
What if I broke up with suffering?
Like really ended things. Changed the locks. Blocked the number. Gave the hoodie back.
I’m not saying I’m healed. I’m not saying I’m floating through life now whispering affirmations and drinking smoothies made of self-love. Honestly, some mornings I still wake up missing it. The ache, the edge, the way sadness used to wrap around me like a second skin. It’s hard to quit something that made you feel seen, even if it nearly killed you. Several times.
But I’m starting to crave something else. Quiet, maybe. Softness. Or maybe just the kind of serenity that doesn’t have to perform for anyone. I want joy that doesn’t need to be earned through agony. I want stillness that doesn’t shame me for not doing more, feeling more, bleeding more.
This breakup won’t be clean.
It never is.
Suffering was a bad lover, but it was mine for a long time. So yeah, I still catch myself reaching for it in the dark, expecting it to be there. Sometimes I even invite it in without realizing. But now, when I do, I catch myself. I remind myself… I don’t live there anymore.
Not forever.
And if you’ve ever loved your pain the way I did, if you’ve ever let it convince you it was the only thing that made you real, I just want to say: you’re allowed to want something better. You’re allowed to move on.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if all you can do today is whisper, “Not this time.”
That counts too.
We all deserve to fall in love with something gentler.
Even ourselves.
Especially ourselves.