Emmy Obaze – “My Fight”

I was eight years old when she first came to me;

In my bedroom, taking the form of a man caressing my body, teaching me things I wasn’t ready to learn, stifling my cries for help. 

I learnt that she was a giver. 

She taught me to hate my body at our first encounter and also gave me guilt and shame which I wore with so much pride, scared to tell a soul that life was slowly seeping out of me. 

She never failed to remind me how much of a disappointment I was. She called me ugly, stupid, useless, and told me I would never amount to anything. 

She was a gift that kept on giving cause she gave me anxiety and her full self. 

I learnt to live with her;

Hiding her behind bright smiles;

Smiles people would say radiates with the intensity of the sun.

Only if they could understand that behind my smile are knife marks, cutting deep into my heart. 

Knife marks caused by her and I struggling to steer the ship of my mind. 

If only they could see that behind my smile is a little girl drowning over and over again. 

I guess I’m a pretty good actress because they could not tell that the smile I wore on my face was just a mask and the happiness I exude is just a ploy to keep them from seeing the tears and sadness I bear. 

Even if I told them, they would never understand how I break myself every night on the bathroom floor, laying in a pool of my own tears, praying for it all to end. 

They wouldn’t understand that when I say I’m tired, it means I want to stop existing.

Living is difficult but I am too scared to end my own life. 

My therapist says I should think about the good times, people, and things that I love. 

He doesn’t understand that the only thoughts I can process are those reminding me that I am not and would never be good enough or worthy of love.

Yesterday, I found the courage to honor the cold, welcoming invite of the grim reaper.

I take out my notepad and pen to say goodbye to everyone but instead, I find the courage to write what I love, taking my therapist’s advice. 

Surprisingly, I love a lot of things. 

I keep writing, fighting this lady that has taken shelter in my mind. 

My pen is my weapon because it is mightier than a sword and even though she puts up a good fight, I don’t let her win. 

“Take your gifts, I do not want them.

I am beautiful,

I am strong,

I am smart and I am loved”.

My suicide note became a love letter to myself.

I won’t stop,

I would keep fighting every day, writing until my mind feels free.

I would write till the knife cuts heal and I can be me, truly me.

 

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash