Emotions Pain Healing

No Regrets

Folder: 
Prose

 

Sitting here in the study, blank, emotionless. Thoughts crowd my mind, pushing, shoving, stifling the room, filling it to the brim with flashes of memory, like clips from a film come to life, played all at once, competing for dominance, struggling to survive as I try to drown them in noise of my own, humming half-forgotten tunes and whispering words of comfort into the cold air of the room as I become a child again, crying as my father swings a fist at my brother, praises me in public while privately telling me I will never amount to anything. Then a teenager, withdrawn, quiet, limbs long and far too thin, skin pale, almost translucent, hesitantly smiling at people I pass, recieving judgement in return, cold, hooded stares that cause the whimpering, pleading child within to quail. On the outside the smile still shows. Despair and depression co-mingle with anger as I come of age. My attempt to end it, cut short by the realization that one other relies on me, my sister. Suicidal tendencies snap and wither in seconds, replaced by all-consuming fire, a roaring forge lit from deep within. 

 

Taking a stand. Shouting. Screaming. Showing the train track marks on my arms, my legs. Vindictive pleasure as dawning horror and shame ripple across his face, ripping him apart as easily as my mind has been continually, constantly shattered for years, my whole life. Sharpening anger as he tries to apologize, make up for it, but the damage is already done, can never truly be healed. Sister's safety secure, moving out, one thousand miles away. Leaving everything and everyone I'd known and loved behind. 

 

Tearful parting with my sister, promising to keep in touch, to get better. To heal. She alone knowing the depth of the cracks and breaks, knowing the strength of the vortex so capable of pulling me under into madness, knowing how delicately balanced I have become. 

 

Deep, even breaths now, the air seems lighter. Grip easing on the pillow clutched in my hand, I close my eyes and smile.

 

I would do it all again, in order to be who I am now.

 

No regrets.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My prose is not pleasant.

I write from reality,

Attempting to describe

To communicate,

To keep others from breaking

As I have been broken. 

 

There is always a choice

Sometimes it's hard to see

And even harder to understand.

Just keep reaching out your hand

And we will grab you, pull you up.