B_NewDay
Junior Member
Pacing wasn’t making it any better. Crying only deepened the wound.
Thinking about it logically? Well I might as well have been dumping salt in to the wound.
People don’t understand the concept of, “you don’t think it’s real until it happens to you”. Sadly, I fall under that umbrella of people who don’t understand what it means. However, due to a belated dose of karma, I am now well aware of the concept.
December 6, 2011.
The date is seared in to my mind, the same way you might brand cattle. Seeing the date on the calendar only solidifies that the misfortune I have stumbled upon is real. There is no easy way out of this, for once, I was speechless. The call came during a class, a normal high school class. The lady’s voice was filled with the obvious attempt to try and understand my feelings. Her attempt failed, miserably I might add. Hanging up before she could finish I didn’t let it sink in. Forcing the thought away, I felt the small flower of despair open inside of my stomach. Later that evening it would blossom into a fire of rage and depression that was unlike anything I had ever encountered.
Crying was an understatement. You hear starving artists make reference to bleeding their hearts out; I was bleeding my heart out. The blood came in the form of tears and stifled screams; the pain was bitter and everlasting. For the first time, my parents left me alone. Not bothering me about homework, or the dishes, or anything. They didn’t comfort me, blame me, they just looked at me as if I were a foreign object. Hoping that if they ignored me long enough eventually I would disappear, dissolve in to the fragile reality of safety and understanding that they had built.
It wouldn’t.
Hours later, which really felt like years, the tears had dried. Not because I was no longer upset, but because I physically could not produce any more tears. A broken arm, broken wrist, losing my best friend to suicide, being hit by my father, running away from home barefoot and alone; none of this compared. For a majority of the listed events I didn’t shed a tear, afraid of the consequences that would come afterwards. I am not weak, but for the duration of those hours, I was.
Weaker then a thread of silk in a windstorm, subject to breaking at any given moment.
All of my ribbons, medals, trophies, certificates, anything that reminded me of my past achievements were sent away. All of it, I packed it away to keep away the shred of hope it gave me. If I had beaten the odds in my designated sport, why couldn’t I take on the beast I faced now? What made it so different?
Questions like those lead to a quick death.
My room now lays bare. The sickly brown walls are naked, my desk which held all of my aspiring hopes cleared of any clutter. Sitting in the dead center of the room, I let my eyes wander taking in every pathetic, useless, insignificant flaw I could find in the walls. As if by identifying the physical mistakes in the house I had sought protection in, for so long, would some how justify the pain and anger I felt.
It didn’t.
My lips were bleeding, my teeth had managed to pierce them multiple times during my sad attempts to stop the outward screaming. The tips of my fingers can trace my lips and find the permanent indentations I left there.
Many compliment me about my eloquent speaking skills. It’s funny really, because if they knew how I developed such a talent, they would instantly discredit me.
The psychologist, what a terrible experience. An overpaid, pompous, agitating young man that thought he had the answer to all of my problems. Granted, I’m not saying they’re all like that. However he sure as hell didn’t help the stereo-type by any means. The questions he asked were irrelevant to why I was there. At first, it was nice, but slowly it turned in to something dark and twisted. His at first friendly composure was inviting but slowly it turned dark. It was like I could visibly see in his eyes the once warm and inviting light replace itself with something volatile and wrong. Ignoring it, a few more months passed on, and then one day it happened.
For whatever reason we were talking about music, and in mid-sentence I felt the worst pain I had in a while across my left cheek.
My head went reeling, trying to effectively understand what had just happened, and slowly everything fell in to place.
This psychologist had struck me. With the back of his hand, he felt that it was quite alright to take his pent up anger out on me. As if I didn’t have enough problems? Without a word I grabbed my things and left. Telling my parents that I had fallen on the way home, they knew nothing of the event of the day. The week passed, and then it came, appointment day.
To my surprise I was eager to go, determined to strike back if he dare attack me. However when I entered the office, he was no longer there, replaced by an older lady. The worst part about it all? I felt disappointed; I wanted to have the opportunity to hit him. To do as he did to me, and take my anger about the world, out on him.
This was a few years ago, and may seem irrelevant to the sentences above it. However, if you think about it I had to lie to this psychologist. Because there was no way in hell I was going to tell him how I really felt. No one understands enough to accept your darkest thoughts and secret. Hence why they stay dark thoughts and secrets. Using him as a test subject, I tried out multiple methods of lying. First I started with words. Once I had mastered that I moved on to my eye contact. A few weeks passed, and now I was tweaking my body language.
At this point, I could convince anyone I was a normal teenager. Not that they cared, but I did. It was the only thing that seemed important. I was acceptable now, no longer cast out because of the unfortunate events that painted my life. People would no longer be able to see how broken, insane, or inhuman I was. They would never know, and I could pretend for just a little while that I had a purpose on this planet.
Mind you, all of the events are prior to December 6th 2011. To be quite honest, I felt like the sole reason I was put on this planet was to test the endurance of a willing soul. Granted, no one wants to be tortured, however not many could actually survive it. Humans are so strange, for they would sacrifice their lives for a human being they claimed they “loved”, yet the same creatures, would turn around and kill you just for the sake of watching another person suffer. Jokingly I tell myself I was created as the wrong species, but I suppose that just goes to show that I am human.
Since then I have become an actress, a wonderful one at that. Never dropping this mask that I carry, it has been perfected. Perhaps one day though I’ll find a reason to drop this mask and live as freely as I please. Or maybe everyone else is just like me. Individuality is a joke when you’re surrounded by 8 billion people who all, also, claim to be different. No one ever said there was anything great about being different. Being damaged, broken, having a less then pleasant past. Yet so many people write novels, or complain about not living in those situations, and it astounds me. My life, though I am grateful for it, is not a pleasant one. I would never wish upon anyone what I have lived through. However, maybe it would do the world good to be broken down to the bare basics of humanity. Needing to survive, and nothing else, just to pass on the strongest gene.
You see, humanity has moved away form that. Our main goal is no longer to pass on genes and survive, it is to enjoy the time we’re given. “Live life to the fullest” as my generation would say.
I would love to live life to the fullest, yet I’m given so many demons to handle. Sometimes I fear that I have fallen prey to them, and am no longer capable of salvation.
I could have had the world. Yet, due to one mistake on the molecular level of things or perhaps an accumulation of bad karma that I have yet to be given, I was restricted. Seeing my own potential is painful, knowing that I could dominate any career field I put my mind too, but not having the time.
Time.
That’s always been the problem, I’ve never had enough time. Always, it’s been a curse that has been with me since birth. Perhaps, if I was born a few seconds later, or conceived just a minute earlier, I would be healthy. I guess it’s not surprising though that this would happen to me, luck has never been on my side.
Slowly the sadness and despair reemerged, stronger then before. As the school year came to close, I found myself falling in to a darkness I couldn’t pinpoint. Hope drained from my mind and suddenly everything turned in to statistics. To my doctors I had always been a number and now I felt like I was turning in to one. No motivation, no understanding, and lack of cognitive thinking were plaguing me for months. Now it exploded in to a wide array of emotions, all negative I might add.
It consumed me, as if it were truly alive. Not just a biological mistake, but a tangible enemy that was determined to bring me down. Eventually I ended up in the hospital where I lay in bed for countless hours not doing anything except breathing. Days turned in to weeks, and weeks turned in to months, and by the time I cared enough to check it was August. Sunlight and blooming flowers only made me feel worse and I retreated farther in to myself.
And then one day, it was all black.
The literal term for it is “death” however I called it relief. No longer did my untouchable potential sit in front of me, taunting me, and questioning why I couldn’t do better. The pain was gone and all the tubes and medications I had were no longer essential. Freedom had never been so bittersweet. At this point though I didn’t care; my suffering had ended.
Finally the fragile reality, which encompassed all of my pain, had given in to the pressure of the true reality that the world abided by. They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I saw nothing. All I heard was the sound of breaking glass as if to represent the breaking of the faux reality I and my parents had tried so hard to create.
I was sick. And likely to die before 20.
They say placebo is a strong method of psychological encouragement, and for a while it worked. Now I escaped the manacles of it and was free to let go of a life that I didn’t regard highly to begin with.
All I wanted from the beginning was to be normal. However, I had done something along the lines, to screw up any chance I had of that. Abused as a child, a runaway for quite a while, a starving artist, an excellent student, a beautiful soldier, and an even better liar; just a few of the demons I had to wrestle.
Some of those may sound wonderful though. Except for the fact that the things I had been good at required time, time that I knew from that start I didn’t have. So I wasted away my time towards a goal that would never be fulfilled. All of my goals lay un-met, and even after death, they still bother me. Now I can’t do anything about it, however when my heart still beat, I had the opportunity to fix it.
You always have an opportunity. I just missed all of mine.
Normalcy was the only I ever craved, and yet, I was awarded with a sickening individuality that would always plague me. From birth till death.
Thinking about it logically? Well I might as well have been dumping salt in to the wound.
People don’t understand the concept of, “you don’t think it’s real until it happens to you”. Sadly, I fall under that umbrella of people who don’t understand what it means. However, due to a belated dose of karma, I am now well aware of the concept.
December 6, 2011.
The date is seared in to my mind, the same way you might brand cattle. Seeing the date on the calendar only solidifies that the misfortune I have stumbled upon is real. There is no easy way out of this, for once, I was speechless. The call came during a class, a normal high school class. The lady’s voice was filled with the obvious attempt to try and understand my feelings. Her attempt failed, miserably I might add. Hanging up before she could finish I didn’t let it sink in. Forcing the thought away, I felt the small flower of despair open inside of my stomach. Later that evening it would blossom into a fire of rage and depression that was unlike anything I had ever encountered.
Crying was an understatement. You hear starving artists make reference to bleeding their hearts out; I was bleeding my heart out. The blood came in the form of tears and stifled screams; the pain was bitter and everlasting. For the first time, my parents left me alone. Not bothering me about homework, or the dishes, or anything. They didn’t comfort me, blame me, they just looked at me as if I were a foreign object. Hoping that if they ignored me long enough eventually I would disappear, dissolve in to the fragile reality of safety and understanding that they had built.
It wouldn’t.
Hours later, which really felt like years, the tears had dried. Not because I was no longer upset, but because I physically could not produce any more tears. A broken arm, broken wrist, losing my best friend to suicide, being hit by my father, running away from home barefoot and alone; none of this compared. For a majority of the listed events I didn’t shed a tear, afraid of the consequences that would come afterwards. I am not weak, but for the duration of those hours, I was.
Weaker then a thread of silk in a windstorm, subject to breaking at any given moment.
All of my ribbons, medals, trophies, certificates, anything that reminded me of my past achievements were sent away. All of it, I packed it away to keep away the shred of hope it gave me. If I had beaten the odds in my designated sport, why couldn’t I take on the beast I faced now? What made it so different?
Questions like those lead to a quick death.
My room now lays bare. The sickly brown walls are naked, my desk which held all of my aspiring hopes cleared of any clutter. Sitting in the dead center of the room, I let my eyes wander taking in every pathetic, useless, insignificant flaw I could find in the walls. As if by identifying the physical mistakes in the house I had sought protection in, for so long, would some how justify the pain and anger I felt.
It didn’t.
My lips were bleeding, my teeth had managed to pierce them multiple times during my sad attempts to stop the outward screaming. The tips of my fingers can trace my lips and find the permanent indentations I left there.
Many compliment me about my eloquent speaking skills. It’s funny really, because if they knew how I developed such a talent, they would instantly discredit me.
The psychologist, what a terrible experience. An overpaid, pompous, agitating young man that thought he had the answer to all of my problems. Granted, I’m not saying they’re all like that. However he sure as hell didn’t help the stereo-type by any means. The questions he asked were irrelevant to why I was there. At first, it was nice, but slowly it turned in to something dark and twisted. His at first friendly composure was inviting but slowly it turned dark. It was like I could visibly see in his eyes the once warm and inviting light replace itself with something volatile and wrong. Ignoring it, a few more months passed on, and then one day it happened.
For whatever reason we were talking about music, and in mid-sentence I felt the worst pain I had in a while across my left cheek.
My head went reeling, trying to effectively understand what had just happened, and slowly everything fell in to place.
This psychologist had struck me. With the back of his hand, he felt that it was quite alright to take his pent up anger out on me. As if I didn’t have enough problems? Without a word I grabbed my things and left. Telling my parents that I had fallen on the way home, they knew nothing of the event of the day. The week passed, and then it came, appointment day.
To my surprise I was eager to go, determined to strike back if he dare attack me. However when I entered the office, he was no longer there, replaced by an older lady. The worst part about it all? I felt disappointed; I wanted to have the opportunity to hit him. To do as he did to me, and take my anger about the world, out on him.
This was a few years ago, and may seem irrelevant to the sentences above it. However, if you think about it I had to lie to this psychologist. Because there was no way in hell I was going to tell him how I really felt. No one understands enough to accept your darkest thoughts and secret. Hence why they stay dark thoughts and secrets. Using him as a test subject, I tried out multiple methods of lying. First I started with words. Once I had mastered that I moved on to my eye contact. A few weeks passed, and now I was tweaking my body language.
At this point, I could convince anyone I was a normal teenager. Not that they cared, but I did. It was the only thing that seemed important. I was acceptable now, no longer cast out because of the unfortunate events that painted my life. People would no longer be able to see how broken, insane, or inhuman I was. They would never know, and I could pretend for just a little while that I had a purpose on this planet.
Mind you, all of the events are prior to December 6th 2011. To be quite honest, I felt like the sole reason I was put on this planet was to test the endurance of a willing soul. Granted, no one wants to be tortured, however not many could actually survive it. Humans are so strange, for they would sacrifice their lives for a human being they claimed they “loved”, yet the same creatures, would turn around and kill you just for the sake of watching another person suffer. Jokingly I tell myself I was created as the wrong species, but I suppose that just goes to show that I am human.
Since then I have become an actress, a wonderful one at that. Never dropping this mask that I carry, it has been perfected. Perhaps one day though I’ll find a reason to drop this mask and live as freely as I please. Or maybe everyone else is just like me. Individuality is a joke when you’re surrounded by 8 billion people who all, also, claim to be different. No one ever said there was anything great about being different. Being damaged, broken, having a less then pleasant past. Yet so many people write novels, or complain about not living in those situations, and it astounds me. My life, though I am grateful for it, is not a pleasant one. I would never wish upon anyone what I have lived through. However, maybe it would do the world good to be broken down to the bare basics of humanity. Needing to survive, and nothing else, just to pass on the strongest gene.
You see, humanity has moved away form that. Our main goal is no longer to pass on genes and survive, it is to enjoy the time we’re given. “Live life to the fullest” as my generation would say.
I would love to live life to the fullest, yet I’m given so many demons to handle. Sometimes I fear that I have fallen prey to them, and am no longer capable of salvation.
I could have had the world. Yet, due to one mistake on the molecular level of things or perhaps an accumulation of bad karma that I have yet to be given, I was restricted. Seeing my own potential is painful, knowing that I could dominate any career field I put my mind too, but not having the time.
Time.
That’s always been the problem, I’ve never had enough time. Always, it’s been a curse that has been with me since birth. Perhaps, if I was born a few seconds later, or conceived just a minute earlier, I would be healthy. I guess it’s not surprising though that this would happen to me, luck has never been on my side.
Slowly the sadness and despair reemerged, stronger then before. As the school year came to close, I found myself falling in to a darkness I couldn’t pinpoint. Hope drained from my mind and suddenly everything turned in to statistics. To my doctors I had always been a number and now I felt like I was turning in to one. No motivation, no understanding, and lack of cognitive thinking were plaguing me for months. Now it exploded in to a wide array of emotions, all negative I might add.
It consumed me, as if it were truly alive. Not just a biological mistake, but a tangible enemy that was determined to bring me down. Eventually I ended up in the hospital where I lay in bed for countless hours not doing anything except breathing. Days turned in to weeks, and weeks turned in to months, and by the time I cared enough to check it was August. Sunlight and blooming flowers only made me feel worse and I retreated farther in to myself.
And then one day, it was all black.
The literal term for it is “death” however I called it relief. No longer did my untouchable potential sit in front of me, taunting me, and questioning why I couldn’t do better. The pain was gone and all the tubes and medications I had were no longer essential. Freedom had never been so bittersweet. At this point though I didn’t care; my suffering had ended.
Finally the fragile reality, which encompassed all of my pain, had given in to the pressure of the true reality that the world abided by. They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I saw nothing. All I heard was the sound of breaking glass as if to represent the breaking of the faux reality I and my parents had tried so hard to create.
I was sick. And likely to die before 20.
They say placebo is a strong method of psychological encouragement, and for a while it worked. Now I escaped the manacles of it and was free to let go of a life that I didn’t regard highly to begin with.
All I wanted from the beginning was to be normal. However, I had done something along the lines, to screw up any chance I had of that. Abused as a child, a runaway for quite a while, a starving artist, an excellent student, a beautiful soldier, and an even better liar; just a few of the demons I had to wrestle.
Some of those may sound wonderful though. Except for the fact that the things I had been good at required time, time that I knew from that start I didn’t have. So I wasted away my time towards a goal that would never be fulfilled. All of my goals lay un-met, and even after death, they still bother me. Now I can’t do anything about it, however when my heart still beat, I had the opportunity to fix it.
You always have an opportunity. I just missed all of mine.
Normalcy was the only I ever craved, and yet, I was awarded with a sickening individuality that would always plague me. From birth till death.
