Hello free writers my name is Obura Cecilia Chidinma, fondly called NMA. this is my first time writing in this community and I wish share this piece of work with this community
It started like a little sickness, something that seemed so easy to manage with a few visits to the clinic and a prescription from the health practitioners. But as days grew into months, and months stretched into years, the symptoms persisted, clinging to her body like a shadow. No meaningful diagnosis could be drawn from the endless tests.It was a sickness that weakened her body, quickened her heart into wild palpitations, and shortened her breath until every inhale felt like a battle. Still, it defied treatment.
Once, she had been radiant full and glowing, with a beauty that drew smiles. But the illness carved away at her, turning her into a frail shadow of herself. Her mind, once at ease, became a battlefield of overthinking and fear. Nights became her enemy; she cried herself to sleep and prayed desperately for a miracle. Yet, each morning, the miracle felt even more distant.
At twenty, she found herself trapped in the body of someone decades older. Her blood pressure mirrored that of a weary woman in her late thirties, weighed down by the struggles of life. But she was just beginning her own. She wondered what sins she had committed to deserve such punishment, why her Maker would allow such suffering to root itself so early in her story.Her once lively nature diminished to nothing. Her confidence collapsed, her laughter faded. The world continued as normal, but she no longer felt a part of it. One morning, after yet another restless night, she found herself sitting in the doctor’s office. He looked at the papers in his hand, then at her pale, anxious face.
“Your results are clear,” he said softly. “You are fine.She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. Fine? Like how could she be fine when her chest tightened with every breath, when her mind raced endlessly, when fear clung to her like a shadow.But, doctor,” she said almost in a whisper, her voice breaking, “how can I be fine when I don’t even recognize myself anymore? My body feels like it’s falling apart. My heart doesn’t rest. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t live. The doctor sighed.
"Sometimes, the body shows what the mind carries. What you’re experiencing may not be in the blood or the scans, but it is real"
His words echoed in her, but they gave her no peace. She left the clinic more broken than when she entered, haunted by an illness no test could detect.At night, she lay in bed, whispering prayers into the silence. “God, please… if this is punishment, forgive me. If this is a trial, give me strength. Just don’t let me drown in this.” Tears wet her pillow, but there was no answer, only the steady rhythm of her frightened heart.
Each day she survived felt like a miracle in itself. She wished it were a tangible illness — something she could point to, name, and treat. If only the doctors could find it, she would fight it. If only it could be nursed, or seen, or managed. But this was different. This pain lived inside her, unseen yet unshakable.Her appetite dwindled, her joy faded. She tried to laugh, to cover the sorrow, but the emptiness only deepened. Inside, she felt unfulfilled. She felt lost. And worst of all, she felt guilty for carrying a pain she could not explain.
With time, she came to understand the truth behind a saying she had once ignored: that physical pain is easier to heal than emotional pain. A wound of the body can be traced, stitched, or treated. But the wounds of the heart remain invisible, hidden beneath the surface, yet burning in ways no one else can see.She remembered telling her friend one afternoon, her voice low and trembling,
“I wish it were something physical. At least then, I could point to it and say, "here it is, this is my battle"But instead, I carry it inside, and no one sees it. Not even me.
”Her friend reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Pain unseen is still pain and surviving it every day that makes you stronger than you think". Although the words didn’t heal her, but they lingered. And perhaps that was enough.
Emotional trauma left no scars on her skin, but it carved deep marks in her soul. It was a pain she could not walk away from. She wished, again and again, that it were a physical hurt something she could nurse, something she could take medicine for, something that would fade with time. But this pain was inward, relentless, unforgettable.
Sometimes, she wondered if she would ever truly heal from it. And yet, in her darkest moments, a quiet whisper stirred within her. A fragile ray of hope told her that the night would not last forever, that one day the storm inside would calm.She held onto that whisper, because sometimes hope even the smallest kind is enough to carry a soul through the longest nights.And so she waited. Not with certainty, not without fear, but with the fragile belief that one day maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even soon everything would be fine. One day, life would be beautiful again.
Physical pain may seem more intense, but it is often easier to manage. Emotional pain, though invisible, can be far more devastating, sometimes causing a person to lose their peace of mind.
Which do you think is more painful, physical pain or emotional pain
Thank you dear readers and I anticipate your responses
Picture used is sourced from Google