Healing Isn’t Linear—And Neither Am I

THIS IS A LONG READ (BASED ON AN ACTUAL TIME IN MY LIFE)

I remember that period like it was yesterday. Classes went by in a blur, and life seemed to slow down and pick up simultaneously.

I fondly remember it as the DARK PHASE.

Hear me out, let’s go on a short, yet somewhat fun ride.

The lecturer was droning on gametogenesis and the origin of humans from an embryology point of view. I was listening until I wasn’t.

I picked up my pen, turned my book to the last page, and started doodling the thoughts of those voices yelling at me.

It sounded so loud, yet quiet, like thunder on a sunny day. I hadn’t experienced that ever.

The next thing I knew, a page was full. My friend turned; to be sure I was paying attention. She looked at my book, then at me, and froze. Her eyes said it all.

Mine? Tired, exhausted, and empty.

Because what else could I do?

How do you explain to someone that your mind has become both a battlefield and a canvas?

That your thoughts are no longer yours, but borrowed whispers screaming through invisible megaphones?

That you’re living in a body present in class but absent in essence?

I stared at the page. No, the madness was taking shape through ink. It was beautiful chaos.

My friend tapped me again, mouthing, Are you okay? 

Was I? I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Smiles are such excellent liars.

This was the beginning of the DARK PHASE, not just a chapter, but a plunge into the deep end of something no syllabus could prepare me for.

Every day felt like wearing wet clothes in a room full of fire: discomfort and confusion dancing in sync.

I laughed when I should’ve cried, cried when nothing had happened.

Sometimes I laughed and cried at the same time. It was poetry, tragic and unedited.

The nights were the worst.

They were long conversations with the ceiling fan, confessions whispered to shadows, and tears that tasted like resignation.

I kept doodling. I filled notebooks with spirals, words, and dark silhouettes that looked like they wanted to jump off the page and run.

Was I losing my mind? Or was I finally meeting it?

Each class became background noise to the storm inside.

The human body was fascinating, but mine felt foreign.

The brain, the heart, the soul; textbook definitions couldn’t explain the heaviness I carried.

How do you tell someone that your chest is tight, not from asthma, but from unnamed sorrows that squeeze joy out of your lungs?

I started intentionally coming late to classes, not because I was lazy, or my hostel was just opposite my faculty, but because the effort of pretending was heavier than a thousand anatomy atlases. I didn’t know what I was becoming, but I knew I wasn’t the same girl who used to argue over grades and assignments, even though I technically still did.

But even in the deepest dark, something sparked. He became my safe place when everything felt empty. He didn’t show up loud or dramatic, but in quiet ways, I didn’t even realize I needed. When I couldn’t hold myself up anymore, He held me. And just when I felt like I was slipping through the cracks, my friends showed up. They didn’t let me go off and hide. They stayed. They sat through the silence. They prayed when I couldn’t pray. They kept showing up, even when I had nothing to offer. I wasn’t alone; not for one moment.

Those pages I used to fill out in pain started to feel different. The scribbles became a way to let go. The chaos didn’t disappear overnight, but God stepped into it. And somehow, in the middle of all that mess, things got quieter. Not perfect, just lighter.

In that dark phase, I didn’t just find light. I found love I didn’t know I needed, people who refused to give up on me, and a God who stays, even when all I can do is breathe.

But recently, something cracked.

A piece of news shattered me, like glass under pressure, sharp and sudden. And before I could breathe, I found myself back there. Not fully, but enough. Reclusing. Quieting. Withdrawing into the shell I fought so hard to leave behind.

How can healing feel so fragile?

How does one relapse into a version of themselves they swore they’d buried?

So yes, I call it the DARK PHASE, but it was also the becoming.

Because sometimes, you must lose your way completely to realize you’re meant to carve your path. And sometimes, what looks like madness is just the soul demanding to be heard.

Would I go through it again? Probably not.

But am I grateful for it? Definitely!

Love,

theintroverted.writer