The truth that no one knows is the number of times I have survived from death. Wondering what on earth is keeping me here, alive, up until now. As if the world has put me through trials and purposely kept me alive through them all to see how I would handle the suffering.
The first was a drowning incident which co-relates with my intense fear revolving around deep-sea diving. The second was a car accident in which I lost my ability to play sports, function my arm muscles normally, and was exposed to radiation which gave me a rare sickness known as Hurthle Carcinoma-a rare case of thyroid cancer. The third was an attempted suicide due to a knife stab in the stomach and overdose on some extremely powerful painkillers I needed to take due to the accident.
Yet the fourth one was the one I solely believed would end my life forever. At the age of 19 of Summer 2014, I was so sure-that this would be my last chance at survival. Suffering through endless depression from a toxic, long-lasting relationship, and the loss of my best friend-I began to worsen my symptoms of my own sickness.
That Summer there was a huge family reunion, in which I tried so hard to delve my sorrows into caskets of wine, bottles of beer, various amounts of alcohol. I even held onto a boy who I never even loved for a second of my time, to try to rid myself of this depression that was sinking it's teeth into my veins-poisoning me, destroying me.
When I escaped from family events I often found myself sitting at friend's parties... one shot, three shots, fourteen-until I blacked out. I sat in the middle of hot-boxing sessions getting high; laughing, laughing, trying to forget the emptiness that I had felt inside.
Trying so hard to forget the look in her eyes, her smile, her stupid lie. Wondering often how one person could completely drown me like this. But how could I blame her when the very fists gripping at my neck were my own hands?
Then it began-the toll I had registered onto myself through intoxicating my body with filthy chemicals. My thyroid began to react dangerously-everything I ate became constant vomit, and if I ate nothing-it became blood. My coughs were so violent they echoed throughout the entire household, and often left splatters on my hands, my clothes, the floor. I was too afraid to eat anything in spite of having the pain from my neck throbbing again from throwing up. I was brought in for hospitalization; pale from losing so much blood, weak from such low blood-oxygen levels.
I was prescribed heavier and heavier doses, told that I could not get better. That I could only kill the pain that would come for me.
Then one day, I snapped, throwing all of my pills at the floor-screaming, crying-"I'm going to die aren't I? I'm going to die anyways. That's what they're telling me. What's the use of taking all these pills if they don't help!"
"3 months" that was their answer, and the first two months I locked myself in my room and stopped attending class. So depressed, so lonely-I refused to talk to anyone again.
But then it came... the one who saved me. The one I would owe my entire next life to when it came down to it. The one who made it better, made me better-who turned that last month of survival into the several months I have gotten to live through now.
The truth is no one will really knows what he has done for me but myself, and although it may seem like it serves some injustice to his name. He should know what he means to me more than anyone else... and that is enough.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Fables: My First Method of Writing
There's a saying, "Writers remember everything."
I was seven when I first started writing, when I first started to enjoy something since the age of five. Since the age I was torn apart for being a child who knew absolutely nothing or how to help oneself.
Mom was sure something was wrong with me, how could there not be? A child who never once spoke to their family members, who never once spoke in school-to anyone until the age of 13. How brightly she smiled when she saw that I could get lost in reading books or writing stories for her to read. I believe that is when it truly started, my cry for help.
Growing up, there was a method of writing I always secured. As a child, I learned to write about my pain-but because it started as a child, I often merged my pain in relation with childish stories. Like fables, that was how I wrote about the shards that cut deep into my heart. I wrote stories about my pain, putting myself as a character in the story-usually as an animal. Without making my pain too clear, I added symbols that needed to be deciphered so no one would actually know what I was directly thinking.
As a child, writing had always soothed me. But how hard it must have been to want to write about my pain clearly, to tell someone-anyone, about my pain clearly. To try and give up almost instantly because it was too painful to write clearly my pain. To remember clearly.
But it wasn't as hard, when no one knew what I was actually saying.
I was seven when I first started writing, when I first started to enjoy something since the age of five. Since the age I was torn apart for being a child who knew absolutely nothing or how to help oneself.
Mom was sure something was wrong with me, how could there not be? A child who never once spoke to their family members, who never once spoke in school-to anyone until the age of 13. How brightly she smiled when she saw that I could get lost in reading books or writing stories for her to read. I believe that is when it truly started, my cry for help.
Growing up, there was a method of writing I always secured. As a child, I learned to write about my pain-but because it started as a child, I often merged my pain in relation with childish stories. Like fables, that was how I wrote about the shards that cut deep into my heart. I wrote stories about my pain, putting myself as a character in the story-usually as an animal. Without making my pain too clear, I added symbols that needed to be deciphered so no one would actually know what I was directly thinking.
As a child, writing had always soothed me. But how hard it must have been to want to write about my pain clearly, to tell someone-anyone, about my pain clearly. To try and give up almost instantly because it was too painful to write clearly my pain. To remember clearly.
But it wasn't as hard, when no one knew what I was actually saying.
The Act of Being Broken
But who asks the real questions anymore?
Who ever comes up and asks how I'm doing without having to send it through text.
Who ever sits and tries to continue a deep conversation about love, life, and hardship.
Who?
Why, why is it so hard to look at someone in the eyes-like movie scenes-and talk about the things that hurt. And don't tell me "because it only happens in movies"-when before everyone hid behind a device to talk about how they felt, it used to happen then too.
How sad is it that I wanted to be hugged instead of told through text, "I wish I was there." Where everyone would rather not cry in front of others, I wanted to show my true emotions about how I felt, the pain I carried, the love I had.
But we have seen those as attention-seeking or annoying to have face-to-face.
I know because when I asked to be hugged, I was told I was lying about my pain. When I pleaded for help, I was told I was annoying. I was bullied for the pain I had felt, as if I was not allowed to feel my pain.
People tell me now, "How tough you must be!" To keep quiet all these years and smile all this time.
No, rather, how broken I must be-to have never been able to say a thing without the belief of being annoying. Without the belief of having someone listen without thinking "how fake this pain must be". Not how tough, never how tough-I am destroyed beyond belief, waiting to be born again.
Who ever comes up and asks how I'm doing without having to send it through text.
Who ever sits and tries to continue a deep conversation about love, life, and hardship.
Who?
Why, why is it so hard to look at someone in the eyes-like movie scenes-and talk about the things that hurt. And don't tell me "because it only happens in movies"-when before everyone hid behind a device to talk about how they felt, it used to happen then too.
How sad is it that I wanted to be hugged instead of told through text, "I wish I was there." Where everyone would rather not cry in front of others, I wanted to show my true emotions about how I felt, the pain I carried, the love I had.
But we have seen those as attention-seeking or annoying to have face-to-face.
I know because when I asked to be hugged, I was told I was lying about my pain. When I pleaded for help, I was told I was annoying. I was bullied for the pain I had felt, as if I was not allowed to feel my pain.
People tell me now, "How tough you must be!" To keep quiet all these years and smile all this time.
No, rather, how broken I must be-to have never been able to say a thing without the belief of being annoying. Without the belief of having someone listen without thinking "how fake this pain must be". Not how tough, never how tough-I am destroyed beyond belief, waiting to be born again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)