I wish it wasn’t about them.
I wish I didn’t hate them. I wish I could live without the intrusive flash-backs, without the black, endless nights spent sobbing myself to sleep, or the paralyzing anxiety and panic attacks that arise whenever I witness a trigger that makes me remember what they did to me.
I wish I could say that it wasn’t my own family that broke my mind, but that would be a lie. The people whom I loved the most, the ones in whose hands I put my absolute, naive trust, showed me that the heart means nothing. That I meant nothing.
Growing up too fast, realizing that adults weren’t the benevolent and all-knowing deities I thought them to be. They were human, and flawed, lost beyond what I, as a child, could do for them. Yet I tried. After every insult, every threat, every wooden spoon broken, every hole punched into my bedroom door, I tried. I tried explaining to them how I felt, I tried taking up less and less space, diminishing my needs to meet their own. I asked only that they respect me, but I was met with derision.
Ingrate. Monster. Mistake. My mother used to tell me that I was unlovable. That no one would ever tolerate me. That I would be alone, and pay for what I had done to her. That one day I would understand what life was really all about.
Almost 20 years later, I can safely say I understand what she meant. Life really is all about pain and suffering, but only because people like her, like them, spread their vitriol of self-hatred and infect young, pure, impressionable minds that don’t know any better.
The stream of narcissists coursing through my existence never stopped, even after leaving the nest. What I learned about self-worth, I perpetuated into my adult life, begging people to stay with me, fighting to win their love, their approval and loyalty. I believed lies, and blinded myself with childlike hope, all because I wanted to feel, just for once, the warmth and comfort that normal, sane people thrive under.
I wanted to believe. I started again, over and over, losing a bit of my spark each time, telling myself it would get better. It had to get better. I refused to become the villain, to sink into despair and forget about the small fire I had burning inside my chest.
It never got any better. The world didn’t get any brighter. As the years passed by, I realized that people strayed further and further away from compassion, from profoundness and selflessness. They grew up, and I still felt like a child, left behind, trying to not get stomped on by all these giants with no emotions that I couldn’t understand.
In a world where everyone tries to be better than their neighbor, there is no time to stop and feel. When all is left up to reason, when people are afraid of their own emotions, that is when the world is plunged into pain. And when someone has the sensibility to point out this chaos, this madness, they are turned away, ignored, and shunned. The people know, somehow, that should they heed their words, their shield will crack, and they wouldn’t survive. Because if you keep yourself busy enough with meaningless things, you’ll end up forgetting, for a time, that you’re suffering too.
These cuts haven’t healed. They are routinely re-opened by the ugliness of humanity. And I’ve amassed such a charge of desperation within my small and bruised heart that I don’t know how much longer it can survive. This small, useless, beating thing…I loved it. I cherished it. I wanted to show it to the entire world. But the world didn’t care.
Vengeance was what kept me going all this time. I wanted things to be fair, for once. I wanted the universe to know that I wasn’t going to accept what had happened to me, and that I would make my own way. I swore they would all pay.
But I know now, that I could never be fueled by such feelings, because that’s not who I am…and it never will be. I will always be that bright eyed, little girl, who makes friends and listens to the ones who are forgotten.
And because of that, I will continue to suffer until I die, alone.