Stripped Journaling

Forgiveness: a conscious and deliberate decision to release feelings of resentment towards someone who hurt you.

Why is forgive and forget so hard? Something done by someone I’ve yet to see again haunts my reality as if it happened yesterday. Like a scar that is deeper than the ones carved by my hand. A person unknown to me, yet forever tied to my soul through one terrible night. The fear of feeling powerless again lingers with me, paranoid, afraid of my own shadow. Am I safe anywhere? Will I be hurt again by another insignificant person who can decide if I am prey? Someone so hungry that they don’t care about their actions. Someone who could easily overpower me and enjoy watching the struggle.

They say forgiveness brings peace, but how do I find peace when fear still grips me?

Panic seizes me at the thought of that night and the constant threat of another. What do I do? How do I forget what refuses to stay buried? When does the torment end? I don't have the answers, but I know this—I am still here, and that must mean something.

When will I heal?

Will I heal?

..

Writing this piece felt like breaking an unspoken rule: stories about forgiveness are supposed to end with healing, but mine refuses to. Instead of offering resolution, I allowed the raw, unfiltered emotions to take control—fear, resentment, and uncertainty. I didn’t want to force a sense of closure that didn’t exist.

I wrote this piece in a difficult state of mind, at a time when I truly believed there is no hope for forgiveness– for someone who damaged me to my core.

I started with the textbook definition of forgiveness because it draws the reader into a familiar concept, something that is universally understood. The dictionary provides a logical, straightfoward, and blunt understanding of the complex emotions that are involved in the process of forgiveness. Yet for those who have suffered through immense pain, that definition seems distant. The simplicity of the definition highlights the dramatic contrast between theory and personal experience. This allowed me to anchor the reader into a space they recognize, only to pull them deeper into the dark, cold waters of trauma.

This piece breaks the traditional narrative structure, it is raw, unedited, and pure honesty. Most stories are built on something concrete– a plot, characters, setting, etc. But this piece is a stream of consciousness that breaks the fourth wall of writing itself. Take, for example, the line, 'Am I safe anywhere? Will I be hurt again?’ These rhetorical questions were never meant to be answered, but to leave the reader with a lingering sense of uncertainty and discomfort. They were meant to show the cyclical imbalance of trauma and the inability to find peace. I could have chosen to answer these questions to allow resolution, peace, and closure. However, I intentionally chose not to, as it mirrors the internal turmoil of the speaker. This uncertainty was a conscious decision–one that leaves the readers feeling the same uneasiness while also portraying the raw reality of trauma.

By leaving key questions unanswered, I hoped to provoke a sense of discomfort in the reader, forcing them to confront their own uncertainties rather than providing a neatly packaged resolution. I chose to do this because, in life, not everything can be resolved in a neat and organized way. The line ‘How do I forget what refuses to stay buried? When does the torment end?’ evokes the idea that trauma creeps up on us whenever it wants to–unscripted and unwritten. Similarly, the line ‘Like a scar that is deeper than the ones carved by my hand.’ underscored how trauma can wound us greater than any personal scar, emphasizing the lasting emotional pain it leaved behind. We don’t get to choose when we are faced with trauma ,but we must navigate it, learning how to maneuver through the chaos it brings.

The decision to use a stream of consciousness style was intentional, as I wanted the unstructured, chaotic flow of thoughts to reflect the mental fragmentation that often accompanies trauma. When someone journals, there are no rules, no paragraphs, no structure– that is exactly what I wanted this piece to feel like. It was meant to be a cry for answers that paper will never provide, a plea for guidance that will never be answered, something–anything–to feel less lonely. The lines ‘When will I heal? Will I ever heal?’ is meant to represent the speaker begging the journal for some sign of change, desperately questioning whether she would remain trapped in the deep darkness of her own trauma.

I chose not to hide behind any layers of fiction or polished prose, allowing my vulnerability to shine through and create an unfiltered, raw connection with the reader. Sometimes, the art of storytelling is simply telling the story exactly as it is– completely raw, full of hard emotions and impactful words. Not every story is meant to have a happy ending. I left this story unresolved. Did she forgive? Will she forgive? –intentionally because this isn’t fantasy. It is real thoughts, real emotions, real life.