Now that I’m an adult, I can finally confess that there were times I never finished my dose of chloroquine. Once I realised no one was watching, I’d throw the tablets away behind the passage door of our modest three-bedroom bungalow. I disliked the bitter taste and how the tablets dissolved on my tongue before I could swallow. The itch that followed for days was also a nightmare. My childish self would rather avoid temporary discomfort than be in good health.
I am almost sure I am not alone on this “wobbling table.” Everyone had their own subtle or aggressive rebellion towards medicine or injections. You did something similar as a child, didn’t you? Throw drugs away or hide an injury from your parents to avoid the sting of treatment. We thought we were saving ourselves from pain. What our little minds couldn’t understand was that we were letting a minor wound fester into something worse. We would act like we are okay, well, until we can’t hide it any longer because it has shown up in a damaging way, putting us at the risk of infection or a more detrimental consequence.
Trauma is a lot like that.
Mental and emotional injury follow the same pattern. They are an injury we try to hide. We ignore it, bury it, and pretend it’s gone. But it resurfaces swollen and decayed, and on an ordinary day, something little tips it off, and boom, it explodes. It explodes when you hit your partner before you realise it. It explodes in how unfriendly you have become due to past experiences that have left you without trust in people. It shows up when your thick walls keep choking your great relationships and your defensiveness when a loved one gently corrects you about your wrongs.
Trauma shapes us, but it doesn’t have to harden or transform us into an inhumane person. Whenever you notice yourself reacting from a wounded trauma place, understand it’s a sign you need your medicine. I mean, talking about the awareness and honesty that you’re bleeding on those who didn’t cut you and depriving yourself of the opportunity to move past your past.
Healing, like taking chloroquine, can sometimes feel bitter and cause temporary discomfort. It demands that you forgive yourself and the villain of your story. It also demands your honesty, patience and vulnerability. Sometimes it will itch like an old wound would. Occasionally, it reopens through triggers and memories. Face it. Talk about it instead of withdrawing. Be kind even if it feels unjustified to be. Find the courage to correct yourself, as uncomfortable as that can be. The child in me once thought bitterness meant harm. Now I know it can mean healing. This is your medicine, and no one else can swallow it for you. It is bitter but takes you a step further to wellness, wholeness and freedom. Wouldn’t you rather have temporary discomfort for long-term healing? The sacrifice is worth it.
