Growing Up

Driving with no airbags, ice skating, hugging my mother, pouring out bottles of wine, romanticizing my life in a weird depressive way, holding back tears, listening to Maria Mena, talking to 3 people, reciting lines, losing the love I have, being sober, visiting his grave, blacking out in my childhood bedroom, wrapping gifts, painting cherries, loving with no intentions of continuing, taking the pills, hoping to disappear, having a first last kiss, straight A’s, learning to tie your own skates, not knowing who is in the mirror, regretting the conversations, hating your image, never knowing what to see.

This is how I feel. I am not sure that I am alive but I can feel my breath, I can feel my body. My body hurts, my brain hurts. I feel the pain in my shoulder from falling on ice. The pain in my hip from hitting it against the table. The pain in my ankle from the skates. I feel the pain and I don’t enjoy it. That is how I know I am alive. When I see myself in the mirror it is not me. I want to drink until I die but the thought of having a drink weighs heavy on me. I have so many regrets that can’t be thought about. They tell me to get over it, to not think about it. But how can you not? I am constantly reminded of it. I have held the hands of people who grieve my grief, who feel the pain that I feel. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t think of it so often. Maybe I will think of the happiness rather than the sadness. But I feel like I am sad, a piece of me will always be sad. Someone once said that they think in the future I will be content however, how can someone be content like this. So much has happened in my 19 years of life.

My first real memory, the cabinet, the hospital, her braided hair, the way her face looked, the hallway, the milkshake, the tears, then no tears. I have always learned to stop crying. I have always learned to hold them back because crying does nothing. I don’t want to blame my mother but she does not know what to do when I cry. Nobody knows what to do because I am nothing but the shell of the 10 year old that learned what suicide was. That learned that making yourself bleed releases the pain. The memories are foggy before that. I remember my mother telling me what molestation was. I remember the bathroom, the book, the tears, the doctors.

Age 12, I remember the walks to the gas station, the diet cokes, the air conditioners, the calories, the printed pictures, the internet. I remember the stress, the frustration, the encouragement from my mother. I remember, I still remember the praise, the happiness from others. I was not normal, I was not supposed to do that. I remember the doctors, the charts, the scales, my mothers diets, my fear of everything. The fear that latched onto me 7 years later. Because who am I without the debilitating thoughts? I would be less interesting. And the praise I still find. I thrive off of it, I need it to live, I will die if I do not hear the compliments. Almost 20 and still fearing things.

Age 15, the razor blazes in the candles. I remember him, the tears, the emergency room, the child proof locks on the doors, the drive, the admission, the charts, the group. I remember him, I remember the bouncy ball, the bagels, the food, the silence, the fear, guilt, regret. I regret so much. It did not help, it taught me how to hide. It taught me how to disappear, how to live a life in private.

There are too many memories and yet I feel as if I have so few. I want to know how many memories have been pieced together by stories and how many are true. The disappointment from others. The life I could have lived. But who am I if not sad? What then do I say? Where do I go? What do I talk about? I am nothing but my sadness. I will never be anything but my sadness. It eats me alive, it pulls me in and I gladly accept the hand that is offered. The fire that is grief feels like fire in my stomach. The inability to communicate, the lack of tears, the lack of fear. I do not fear death, in fact, I welcome it. I do not know what happens after death but perhaps, if I get to see him again it would be worth it. Perhaps if my wheel slips I will see the light and see my memories flash in front of my eyes.

Laying on the ice, feeling out of control, the motherly love I crave, the peace I cannot seem to find, the never-ending sorrow that consumes me. And what am I to do? What am I to say? I apologize when I speak because I was raised to be small, to not take up space. We did not talk about the incident when she was young and we did not, we do not talk about his death. I am left with the memories of him groaning. Hearing the man who never complained be in pain. It is cemented in my mind, I want to forget, I want to speak of it, and yet I stay quiet because who am I if not a quiet girl? Who am I without the pain that is felt in my bones? I have nobody.

When I sit in a dark parking lot with my doors locked and a piece of metal in my hand, I can think of no-one to call, no-one who will care. Who am I if not exploited? Who do I become without the sorrow, without the guilt. I am but a child who never grew up, who was never shown the love that I needed, we were told to be quiet, to move on with as little noise as possible. To feel the pain and then let it disperse. But how does one move on from such a catastrophic death? How does one function after never getting to say goodbye? Love will never be felt in the four walls that others call my “home”. Love will never be felt from the touch of my mother. Love will never be felt with words from those I think care about me. So I will apologize. So I will make peace with the pain. I will never let them in, I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I cannot explain the unknown. I wish I could feel loved by anyone however everything is so difficult. Who cares about me? Why do they not speak up? Who am I? Who are they?

I wish I could explain the situation. I felt wanted, I felt loved, and yet it all felt wrong. I had to force the feeling of love. I had to fall in love with the idea of you but I could not fall in love with you. I do not think I will ever make sense of the situation and yet, I do not regret much of it. If anything it is a lesson that needed to be learned. I know what love is not.

I am filled with the rage of a 10 year old who learned too many things too early. I had to grow up. I was placed on the back burner until they realized I was going to die. I was going to die by my own hand. And yet they did not notice? How could they not see? I left so many clues. I wanted them to notice, I want them to notice. I want them to see the missing whisky, the empty wine bottles, I want them to know I am hurting. If I say that then they will be upset that I didn’t ask for help but how do you ask for help when you have been rejected in the past? I cannot feel anything. I will cry a few tears and then decide to be done.

I do not remember that night, I don’t remember if I cried, I don’t remember what I said, I don’t remember what he said. I am upset at myself that I had that much to drink. I wish I had not done that, I wish I had stopped at the fifth glass. They only like me when I’m drunk. He says they talk about me then why did they decide to ditch me? I do not understand the turnaround. I cannot see past the fear that I am unwanted. I live in constant fear. I need approval, I need them to like me. I fuck up by saying that I am sad, they don’t like me when I’m sad, they like me when I’m drunk. You cannot tell me anything different. I like me better when I’m drunk. I think maybe they would like me better if I was normal. I am nothing but a burden, I am nothing but dead weight. It would be better for everyone to leave.

The next year feels impossible. I cannot do this. Who will reach out? How much will I drink? I hope that everyone tells me they love me. I cannot handle the thought of people pitying me. I want to be held, I want to feel loved.

Life is so impossibly unfair I cannot comprehend the severity of how I feel mentally. I do not know who to talk to without feeling as if I am taking up too much space. Life is and will never be fair to the purest souls. Perhaps I am not so kind, perhaps I am a liar.