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sa1ntj · 6 years ago

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They say that I am lucky.

I’m studying in an exclusive school, I have a car, and living independently. They say I also have the face that could get what she wants; a face that would make doing a favors easy.

Yet, what they didn’t know was the hollowness from deep within, burrowing my soul and leaving me nothing but ashes of the burning memories of happiness. The nightmares that kept me awake and just cry in the middle of the night.

Nobody asked if I ever wanted to have this life.

All they ask is: “Why don’t you get yourself a boyfriend?”

What they didn’t know is I am so broken within that nobody will love these cracks that are hidden from the naked eye.

And whenever I tell them that, I was rewarded by a laugh and “You can’t possibly be depressed. I’d give anything to have your life.”

What they didn’t know is that this life they’re trying to have is a life of lies and betrayal. A life that has feared living and commitment.

When did it start, you may ask? I am not sure. I just woke up one day that I realized I feel so empty.

I was 8 when my parents fought in front of us about issues we still cannot understand—at least that’s what they said. They were screaming and crying and throwing hurtful words at each other, words they never really meant. Then there would always be the agony of choosing between either of them, and it was always a torture, seeing the pain in my mom’s eyes whenever I choose my dad.

I was 9 when I heard my father admitted an affair with other woman. “She makes me happy,” his voice still echoes in my ears. “She was the one who was there for me when all you did was argue and point out my flaws.”

I didn’t understand. I was still young. I was supposed to be an innocent young girl with dreams and fantasies and fairytales, but all those were shattered into several pieces.

Everything fell into a flashback—about how he told us his story as a child who was abandoned by his parents and he well never let us feel the same pain of loneliness; about how I waited for him every night to come home with my favorite chocolates, and ended up sleeping on the couch. He’d kiss my forehead; carry me to bed, and the next morning I’d lie awake magically in my bedroom.

I was 10 when he eloped with his other woman. All of a sudden, he stopped coming home. All of a sudden, my mom would wake me up and tell me that I should go to my room because it’s past two in the morning and he’s not coming back. He won’t be there to carry me around or bring me chocolates or buy his promised toys.

Nights became weeks and weeks became months. I got tired of waiting. I stopped waiting. I forced myself to get used with his absence, with every school event that he’s not there, with every morning that he won’t drive us to school, with every night that he won’t be sleeping with us.

God knows how hard I prayed for a father when the wind was whistling and the storm became stringer. When the flood went rushing inside our house and there was nobody to assure us that everything would be alright.

He was the first man to break my heart.

Who would’ve thought that that event would lead to more.

I was 16 when I started seeking for the attention I’ve lost; when I first had a boyfriend. All he did was to make me feel important and make me feel loved, yet it was so foreign, it scared me. We broke up because of my inability to stay fully committed.

At that age was when I fully realized that I was afraid of getting married, to be of burden to someone, to break my future children’s heart.

I was afraid.

I was miserably afraid.

I was 17 when my dad took us back with the promise that he will stay with us. I was filled with hope, finally I can see a light.

He lied.

He forced me to meet his new family—the person who destroyed my life in a snap of a finger. The person who took everything from me—freedom, happiness, right belongingness… family. She was enjoying it all when it wasn’t really hers to begin with.

He was there when they were celebrating birthdays, Christmas, New Year and all the special events that should’ve been celebrated with me and my brothers.

I was given the responsibility to look after my little brother. All the frustration of not being able to go to college of choice because of my responsibility. The lack of belongingness in the home of my own family, the jealousy towards my friends living a life of their own choice, the betrayal of my dad’s words, the longing for love… for a family. I wanted to end this bullshit of a life.

Trust me, I attempted to. A lot of times.

Now which one is better, to be able to feel the pain, or to feel indifferent when you know something is wrong.

I was 18 when everything changed. I met this guy. It felt natural…magical even. With a few words, we instantly clicked as if we were really meant to happen, as if I’ve known him for a very long time. For the first time, I considered it love. For the first time, I really opened myself up to someone, showed him how vulnerable I am, trusted him with what was left of me.

I believed that he was the one of the good people that I need to treasure. He helped me in my growth and educated me about the things I do not know about. He helped me decide what kind of career I want to build, and gave me new pair of eyes. He encouraged me to find a therapist to treat my mental health issue.

For the first time, I saw a man in my future.

You’ve been hiding in fear all your life, I once said to myself. Now’s the time to risk.

But then, same old shit. Life fucked up.

I was on the verge of exploding with different strong emotions;

Loathing.

Self-hatred.

Resentment.

Antipathy.

Vengeance.

I have kept myself together for years, and every fucking time I try to give myself a chance, they take advantage of my vulnerability.

Death was the only thing in my mind. Thinking about it gave me peace, happiness, and odd satisfaction. I was so determined to die, but never wanted to break my mom’s heart because of my desire for tranquility.

I am done with my life. I am done with respect. I am done with trust and I am done with love.

And love? Love is bullshit. It’s an illusion human created just to believe there is something worth living for.

My life is in no direction.

“Just fucking kill yourself,” another voice whispered in a dangerous tone.

It was a soft whisper that mixed with the whistling of the wind. And that voice… was mine.

All at once, the voices stopped. There was nothing but deafening silence. Exhaustion was running after me and finally caught up, making my legs feel numb. This is the part I hated the most, because in this silence, I wasn’t sure if I was still alive. I wasn’t sure if I still want to be alive.

Living with depression allowed me to master how to keep my emotions inside me, to wear a mask of difference every single day when I am really dying, to smile without showing a bit of anxiety.

I can keep my emotions inside me, I can wear masks of different expressions but you wouldn’t know how dead I already am.

I was slapped of that reality. I was stuck here - stagnant.

Dead. But not really.

Just in between of living and dying.

They call my soul unholy, but I burned willingly in the arms of each of my sins and exhausted steam out of my loneliness.

I am now 20 years old, and the only difference is I am an emptier person. I have endured everything in my past, but what happened to me in the past year, I cannot endure.

How do you save yourself from you? How are you supposed to tell someone what’s wrong when you don’t know it yourself? When there are a lot of voices inside your head?

I’m an empty soul trapped in a broken body.

I wish I could just shut my mind down, for a second, a minute, even a whole life time. Because then, I’d stop. That’s the thing about it, you no longer control your thoughts. They control you. And that’s something not everyone understands.

It’s easy for others to say, “You’ll get over it.” or “You’ll be fine, just stop thinking about it.” when they don’t know how badly you want to stop thinking about it. How badly I want to be okay, to say the least.

I never wanted to be a burden to anyone, so as much as possible, I avoid them. My emptiness is contagious; I’m afraid people will start seeing the world the way I do. Aside from that, I am so afraid of being left behind, which is ironic, because I didn’t want to have anyone.

That’s where I’m good at anyway, to push people away just to save my own.

Depression isn’t about being sad. It’s about being empty and not knowing how to stop. And I honestly don’t know which is worse. It’s easy to wake up every day when you’re looking forward to something. When you see the end of the sea, when you see your direction in life, and when you know which way to row; but if the sea is blurred with clouds and thunder and lightning that your mind produces, it’s hard to even breathe, let alone live.

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