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I find myself torn between the life I might've had and the person I might've been and the reality. This reality.
I remember being 5 years old, holding my sister's hand with unwavering trust. Being 6 years old, hugging my mother as if in a cocoon of safety and warmth and love. Entering our house, the walls echoing with laughter and joy.
It sounds good doesn't it? It was.
But that's not my truth. My truth is being 13 years old, filled with anger and pain and regrets. Being 15 years old and writing suicide notes in math class. Lying as if it was a sport.
My mother asked me once why was I lying. I said nothing. I lied to her for the same reasons I lied to everyone else. I had nothing to say, no convictions of my own beyond I am bad.
I am gay. It took me 22 years to be able to say that word out loud. I knew I was different when I was 4 years old. I wouldn't know that being gay was a real thing for another 10 years.
I am a sexual assault survivor. Let me rephrase that. I am a 3 times sexual assault survivor. One of those times was because I am gay person. So does that make me a hate crime survivor too?
I am a bullying survivor. You think it's funny that I put this in here. And it is. If being harassed for who I am and how I look is funny. If being told daily to kill yourself is funny. If being kicked down is funny.
I am a suicide attempt survivor. For now, anyways. That might change.
I am bad. I didn't use to be. But I am now. At least I think I am. I'm not sure.
You see? I remember laughter. I do. But my laughter is as hollow as an empty house now. Just the space filled with memories, but not living. Not alive.
I don't remember happiness. I think it's been too long and the darkness built up around me like a barrier.
I remember love, though. I remember it's heat radiating off of my sister's giggles and my mother's touch, my whole body lighting up as if on fire. As if millions of tiny suns rose in me when they whispered my name.
It's cold now. But not because they don't love me or I don't love them but because of the eclipse. I just can't see the sun anymore. I can sometimes feel a little flame, like a memory of the fire that once burnt so brightly. I'm cold now.
Can't you tell? I tried. I tried forgiving and forgetting and letting go. But this anger consumes me so fully, the pain radiates off my skin and burns everything and everyone I touch.
I want to say I don't blame anyone. And mostly I don't . I know I am bad. I know the fault lies with me. But sometimes I wonder.. If you were less busy , if you gave more fucks about what's wrong with me and why the hell did my child changed 180 degrees in the course of a couple months? If you listened more, accepted more, wondered more and judged less.. would it be different?
Would I still know love and happiness? Would I still put my trust in you or her or anybody else? Would I still be raging with self hatred?
Life happens. It's okay. You did your best.
Life is hard. Best I can do is be kind. Life sucks enough without making other people's life miserable. There's one thing I still enjoy. Kindness.