I think I am in the beginning stages of losing my mentality. Aboard this train going so fast every passing image becomes a blur and the faces I once thought were familiar are now strange to me.
I sit in the kitchen in silence eating yogurt wondering why we will never be able to communicate. The pain stabs at my heart and I weep in silence knowing that you will never see nor question the tears running down my cheeks. It’s been like this for some time now. I suppose I had formed a mental block as to what life at home was really like after moving away for four years. The fights, the screams, forced affection, and emotional confusion. I never knew where to direct my angry frustration. That’s when I found peace in physical pain. Danger was thrilling and all too comforting. The late jogs on campus; the swift move of crossing the street only to narrowly be missed getting hit. I no longer cared for my safety because I no longer cared to live. The pressure from home was too heavy and everything always had to be kept a secret.
I think that’s something that really messed me up in the head. These forced secrets kept me from friends, romantic relationships and even myself. Speaking about my feelings meant being a traitor to the family, and it wasn’t a game to be played lightly. The emotional abandonment caused me such grief that I started hurting myself to make everything make sense again. But I didn’t realize that nothing makes sense once you reach that point. I became numb to reality and the only way I could feel was through pain. My joy was limited but my sadness seemed constant. Who would understand me when the only words I was ever allowed to udder through the hurt was “I’m okay.” I just wanted someone who could see under that lie and find me. But that person never came.
Wishing I was dead had been a thing I used to pray for as a little girl. I feared my mother so much that I told my second grade teacher that she would chop me up into little pieces and hide me in the walls if she ever saw that I earned a B on an assignment. But to me that was normal. It wasn’t until senior year of high school that I was begging myself to hold on until I could get away for college. I never realized that emotional baggage wasn’t something you could just choose not to pack up with you.
At college I was making friends fast and maybe for the wrong reasons. I suppose that’s why most of those friendships didn’t last. Once again I felt alone and the hole in my heart was only to get bigger as time went on. The thoughts of ending my life became more and more real as my efforts of self harming became more and more dangerous.
That’s when it felt like my mind started to take on another voice. There was now a voice inside of me begging me to seek help, and I most definitely needed it. I started seeing Paul, my counselor, and things started to change around for the better. I made a lot of promises to myself about always making sure I get the help when I need it and to never revert back to my old ways.
Well saying those things is a lot easier when you’re not living at home. This is where my demons were born and I am beginning to drown in silence again. I know the only way I will ever be free, is if I move but the thought of that being my only option makes me feel like a failure to my family.