Family couldn’t understand me. Friends wanted the usual; “I am fine” response to “how are you” and I obliged them.
I am a happy person – I would like to believe that. Frankly, I used to be one, all bubbly and excited until everything changed. I would like to say something ‘great’ happened, some life-changing event, but it didn’t come about that way. There was no wave of realization. No loss. No failure. To burst your bubble it happened after a high.
I thought these things happen to others. These things happen in books. These things happen in those Hollywood movies we run to the cinema and pay to watch. I didn’t think I would be the next entertainment for others.
How I felt couldn’t be explained. Nothing held back my tongue. I just couldn’t find the right words to describe how I felt. How I had felt for months. Was I lost? Better yet, was my case a forgotten one? Was I hopeless? I wasn’t abused, I managed to always escape it. Or maybe I was abused. I remember being told during our Sex Education classes that it didn’t have to be physical. I was mentally abused. I was fighting the figurative exertion. And I think I was tired of fighting it.
I tried to bury the memories that hurt. Aren’t we all doing that? I was trying to move on to greater heights and I did. I was on one of those peaks when I was sent crashing to the base. I watched my sanity under a stone rolling down the hill. I was sure I would go under myself. I survived, didn’t I? I wouldn’t be here otherwise, or would I?
Sometimes I realize I am still dealing with it. I like to think I’ve overcome it but there are still nights I cry uncontrollably. Nights the comfort of sleep eludes me. Nights I still beg for death. Maybe I shouldn’t do that. Maybe I should be stronger. I think it’s my weakness that kept me. If I had been stronger I might have found the ropes and hung them. If I had been stronger I might have taken the drugs in dangerous doses. The drugs. All part of the lie that medical help was to me.
I couldn’t be helped. I was falling in a space without gravity. I wasn’t hitting the ground. That sensation of falling. That ornery feeling of thinking you might hit the ground and never actually getting there.
Wouldn’t it have felt nice to break a few bones or even a lot and be done with it? Wouldn’t it have felt better to even die? To be stranger to my pains.
Family couldn’t understand me. Friends wanted the usual; “I am fine” response to “how are you” and I obliged them. Was I in the position to listen to anyone’s laments? why should they have to listen to mine? They were contented to move from my, “I am fine” to talk of boys and jokes. Jokes I couldn’t hear for what they were, but I did manage to send the right response. I think my solace was leaving them in the dark.
What did it profit me to have more hands on my neck? Yes, that’s what the concern felt like. It killed me almost as much as my constant companions, my demons. They never let me get a word in. They filled my head with sorrow and my heart with bitterness. I could barely remember my last happy hour. And I tried to because that’s what they always said – “Think of your best memories.” What are memories? I was fading from the pictures in my mind. The worst part is I was happy fading. I wanted to go. I begged to be taken. My request fell on deaf ears. But then his ears had started to seem deaf to me.
I’d like to tell you what pulled me out of that abyss, but I don’t know if I am out yet. I still fall. The light in his eyes when he smiles is the light I move towards now. I moved one step closer today.