#to numb my emotions my brain makes me dissociate and picture killing myself

[sensitivegoblin]

Vent tw

[pointlesspoetryy-blog]

Driving Lessons (fiction)

A fictional story about a teenage girl’s final process of moving on from a tragic event. I wanted to capture the feeling or idea of “driving” away from something, a traumatic event, something you haven’t let go of. 2693 words. It’s a long one. 

Driving Lessons

”My mum and little sister died when I was eleven and I killed... no… I did… please...don’t give me excuses”.

And that’s all I remember from my session today. In fact, that’s all I remember saying all day. I remember Dad taking me to the cafe across the street from the therapist’s and eating a sandwich that was far too chewy to be worth its twelve dollar price tag. Then I remember taking the train home with him and going to my room and staring at my math homework. I think I cried because of the 2010 family picture on my wall, but that could have been yesterday.

I haven’t been in a car since the accident. I’ve been told it was an accident but I still don’t think it was. That’s why I had therapy today. I’ve been fighting with my Dad because I don’t want some idiot with a degree telling me why I killed half my family. He broke down and said he’s so sorry he didn’t help me sooner, for not being there for me. I eventually agreed in the heat of the moment.

Most people think it’s weird that I haven’t been in a car for five years, but it’s not all that hard. If I do something on the weekend it has to be by the train, but usually, I’m just in my room. My room is where it’s safe and I feel safe and I can’t hurt anyone. I’ve been told I have some sort of complex, but then again not many people have caused what I’ve caused. A month ago, I took and passed the computerised driving test, for the hell of it and to make Dad happy. My L plates now sit in my drawer, untouched and hated. Now, all of my friends are starting to drive, being sixteen and all, but I know I could never set foot on a brake, turn a key, start an engine; roll down the windows, blast music, drive my friends home from a party; sing along to a song while I drive, the way my mother would always do, her sweet voice in tune with a cassette tape. When I was six and she’d take me home from dance lessons, she would put in a nursery rhymes CD and we’d yell the lyrics to Humpty Dumpty on the Princes Highway, windows down and wind in my face.

I remember the song that was playing right before the accident. Sometimes I lie awake in the dead of night and the music will crawl into my brain from some deep dark corner and my chest seizes up and I can’t breathe. I hear cars zooming down my neighbourhood from outside my window and I want to stand up and yell at them to stop, to please save themselves, but I am frozen and sweating under my covers. I flashback to the moment, the suspension of air and time and then the crushing sensation of the ground. All I can hear is the CD player scratching and the lyrics breaking over and over and over again as I lie there and eventually the disc machine gives up and the scratchy song stops; and then, silence. The song is so ironic that many times in these panic attacks I’ll burst out laughing- God really does have a sense of humour. “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees.

I got given pills at thirteen, some chemical compacted into a tablet that was supposed to make me forget. I tried to take them but they made me numb, oblivious to the world with a layer of rose glass glazed over everything. It was as if you took your depression and put a barbie bandaid on it. I started flushing the stupid things down the toilet, and the panic attacks came back. It was better than forgetting my mum and little sister ever existed.

It’s Sunday and I wake up at 5 am. This is normal for me, don’t worry. I check my phone and drink some water, and do my usual routine of lying awake for two hours, mind blank. Early morning is the only time I feel okay; I can picture my little sister snoring in the room next to me in her tiny pink barbie bed. I used to jump into it every morning, waking her up and blowing raspberries on her face. She would cling to me as I piggybacked her to the kitchen and made us Weetbix for breakfast. Mum would pad down the stairs in her dressing gown and make tea- she wouldn’t drink coffee because of the baby- and my Dad would follow, letting the dogs in and making everyone pancakes on the days he wasn’t working. Mum would hug us goodbye and take Milly to kindergarten as I walked to the bus stop. Now, my Dad will wake up early and come into my room, every day, probably to check that I’m still alive.

I startle as he knocks on my door at 7 am. My body is tired, a familiar throb that wakes up with me. I pretend to be asleep as Dad sits at the foot of my bed. “B?”. He uses the same tone every morning when he says my nickname, apprehensive and tense. I breathe loudly and can instantly sense his relief. He pats my shoulder.

“I have to tell you something sweetheart”, he says, and I can tell from his voice that it’s not going to be okay.

“Promise me you’ll be okay with this”

“What is it, Dad”

“I… I booked you a driving lesson for this afternoon”

And my whole world goes black.

I wake up again around 9 am and at first, I can’t remember what’s wrong. I climb out of bed and sweep my hair off my forehead, realising I’ve been sweating. I find myself going to my sisters' room; it’s been untouched for five years, a thin layer of grime covering her Barbie dolls and toys. I sit on her bed and it creaks. I often do this, lying under her pink covers and crying. “I miss you, Mills. I’m so sorry. You would have been ten today, baby”.

I pace into the kitchen and sit at the table with my Dad, a full cup of coffee at my seat. Dad looks empty. “It’s…”

“Yeah, it’s Mill’s birthday” I interject. There’s no reason to beat around the bush. I rarely reveal my emotions to people, no-one needs to know how I sit in my sisters' room and cry, or talk to my mum in my sleep. “I thought this would be a good day to move on, Brea. For you to learn how to drive”. There’s a long pause. Dad’s tone is slow and tired. I am silent, but not by choice, but because instead of words I have tears bubbling up. “We just. Need to move on. You have to move on B, this isn’t healthy” he’s saying, but all I am hearing is “forget about their suffering and drive without them”.

“Dad, I can’t. You know that” I choke out. “What if I’m responsible for someone else’s death again? There’s just too much to handle”. Dad lowers his head to the table. His tone is gruff.  “It wasn’t your fault Brea, Jesus Christ. Your lesson is at four o'clock this afternoon, understand? Don’t you see how I suffer too, watching you waste your life and blame yourself for this bloody mess? You were eleven years old, Breanna. It was dumb bad luck”. I am silent.

10 am fades into the afternoon, which melts into 3 pm. I’ve switched between lying in my bed, staring at my math homework, ignoring my friend’s messages. Dad appears at my door. “Breanna, it’s time. Get dressed”. I feel pretty numb, along with knowing there’s no way I’m getting in the instructors' car. “How are we getting there?”, “we’re driving” Dad responds in a muted tone. “Nuh-uh. No way.” I try, tears prickling. “You can sit in the back. It’s happening, Brea” is the response I get, no sympathy, no recognition of my fear. I swallow and sidle into the back seat. Dad’s face softens and his tone changes. “I’ll drive real slowly, the place is only six kilometres away”. I curl up inside my seatbelt, trying to cure the unfamiliar feeling.

My eyes remain shut the entire long trip, although only long because Dad drives slowly. Still, every speed bump, jolt and close-passing car makes me panic. At some point, I press my hand up to the window, a light rain misting the view. I didn’t want to look outside anyway.

All of a sudden I am standing outside the instructors' car, his face frowning back at me. Rain tickles my scalp, and I can’t tell if the wetness on my cheeks is rain or tears.

“I’ll be in the back seat, B. You got this” I hear Dad say, distantly. The instructor stands in front of me. “As this is your first time driving, we will only be driving around one street. However, I will first teach you the basics of the clutch and wheel etc…”

His voice fades into the air for me. I want to run away, but there are cars that will chase me: in other words, I’m trapped.

It’s time for me to enter the car. I’m almost dissociating from reality but there is nothing I can do. The instructor shows me how to use the clutch and pedal, but his words are bullshit to me. He places a key in my trembling hands, expecting me to know what to do with it. “Is she okay?” the guy is asking my Dad, his words sounding distant and echoey in my drumming brain. “She’s fine… just experiencing some drivers anxiety…” I bite my lip so hard that I feel the capillaries burst; I can hear them pop… not normal… focus. I turn the key and the engine starts, abruptly. And I am plunged into somewhere else.

It is February 2013, a warm day in Sydney. My little sister and I play fight and wrestle as we make our way through the parking lot. Mum tells us to cut it out, and cut it out quick! But she is laughing. Sugar from my popsicle lingers on my lips, sticky in the sun. Milly has her arms wrapped around my waist and I’m forced to drag her, groaning and panting, I lock my fingers into hers and twist them back. “OWWWW” she exclaims and starts to cry. “No! SHH, Mills! No crying allowed on your birthday!” I yell-whisper, cautious of  Mum in the near distance, knowing I’ll get in trouble for making Milly cry. I pick her up and carry her as I walk. “Stupid face!” I grin, and she grins back. Sugar has gotten to her head and she wriggles out of my arms and runs across the parking lot. “Mills, come back!” I yell at her, knowing I’m partly responsible for her safety. Mum gets her. I smile. Luna Park was just what Milly needs on her fifth birthday, and it was kinda fun too, even when I’m as old as eleven.

“Push over, loser” I playfully shove Mills off my favourite back seat. “Honey, you sit in the front today” My mum smiles behind her Ray Bans. Her lipstick is cherry coloured and teeth straight and white, eyes so kind as they peer over the top of her glasses. I scowl as I climb into the front, wondering why I didn’t get the good genes. Milly has the same kind eyes; I know she’ll be beautiful by my age. Oh! “Milllllls, it’s time for your birthday present!” I grin and look behind me at her excitement. I throw back my handmade paper card with a stick figure drawing and a stuffed animal full of candy. Mum scowls lightly and starts the car, the sudden sound of the engine abrupt. We roll out of the parking lot into Sydney traffic. Mum lets me choose the CD for the car trip, Mills doesn’t seem too fussed, even though I know she’d like some Britney Spears; I hate Britney Spears. I choose an Old Hits CD and ignore Milly’s protests.

It’s been about half an hour and we’re on a busy-looking highway. Mum’s letting me go on her phone and Milly’s fast asleep in the back, sugar crash no doubt. “I can’t wait ‘til Mill is older and I’m super old like twenty-three and we can be adults together” I happily tell Mum as she pretends to listen; I notice but I keep rambling anyway. “Will we still go to Luna Park when we’re older? Mums?”

“Sorry, darling, I’m a bit tired… love, just let me focus”. I always forget that Mum’s pregnant, because her bump is still small, but she somehow already knows it’s gonna be a boy. Science is cool. I heard Mum and Dad talking about names just last night, it’s gonna be Jamie or Sam or most likely Tye. I think Tye sounds stupid, like the hair tie on my wrist.

My favourite song from the CD comes on- “Stayin Alive” by the Bee Gees. Anticipation lulls away and I rest my head on the windowsill.

I hear Milly wake up before I see her because she stops her annoying snoring, finally. “Where’s my stuffy!” she whines, rubbing her eyes.

“Are we nearly there, Mummy?”

“Not yet baby”

“Where’s my stuffy? I want candy” “I don’t know love, go back to sleep”

Out the corner of my eye, I see Milly reach for my present, having rolled to the opposite side of the back seat, under Mum’s. “Can’t… reach..” she mutters; I’m singing along to the chorus of Stayin Alive. Mum quietly curses at a car as it overtakes her. “Reckless people” she mutters. “Mum, you okay,” I ask. “Yes darling, can you check on your sister?”

The barely audible click of a seatbelt unfastening reaches my ears. “Mills… Mills! Get back!” I whisper.

“My stuffyyyy”, Milly is crawling to the other side of the backseat. Mum sees her in the rearview mirror. “Milly...Camilla!”

Mills has gotten herself wedged in between the back seat and the front seat, reaching for her stuffed toy. I roll my eyes. “You’re gonna get in trou-ble” I tease. “Don’t you unclip your belt, Brea”, Mum warns me sternly. “Milly darling please, get back to your seat, I can’t pull over here”, a worried expression on Mum’s face, hand on her bumpy stomach. Milly rustles her stuffed animal free from under the front seat and prepares to climb back up. I lay my head back on the windowsill. I hear a scream.

“SPIDER!”

Mum jerks her head around to the back in a startle. She knocks the steering wheel with her left elbow as I watch in confusement. In the lane beside us, approaches a truck.

It only takes a split second.

Passengers in the backseat are 46 percent more likely to die in a car crash than front seat passengers and drivers.

For some reason, this processed Wikipedia sentence repeats over and over in my head as I sit at the driver’s seat, fingers on the turned, rumbling engine, standstill; back to reality. Two pairs of eyes watch me in concernment as I shake, breathing, in, out, in.

“Um.. so… you have to push your foot on the pedal and…” The instructor.

I’m not listening.

I’m crying, and I look to Dad for comfort, but he’s not there. Instead, it’s young Mills and Mum and her baby bump. “Hey guys” I smile. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I gave Milly her present in the car… I should have waited like you told me too, Mum”. I silently cry, hoping the instructor can’t see. “I should have let us have the life you deserve, with me and Mill and Tye”; Mum and Mill smile sadly at me. “Happy birthday Milly baby” I whisper. “What do you want for your birthday? You can have anything”.

“I want you to drive me home, big sis”.

So I do.

[queerafterthought]

Everything is a lie. Everything. I don’t know what to belive anymore and I don’t trust anyone anymore. No matter what I do he’ll find a way to make it worse. He always goes for the gut where it’ll hurt. He knows I’ll think about it non stop it’ll eat away at me. He can say the worst things to me make me feel like I’m nothing but everyone sees me as an immature child and I’m always wrong. Just cause he said so. If i cant sit down with someone and have an “adult conversion” 10 mins after they just told me I was insane cause I had to go to a mental hospital for bpd and tell me I’m evil. Told me id never be anything never have any power threatened to put me on the street call the police on me. He said i have no friends. They were never mine they’re his. And he has the power to make them not like me. And now after i thought that things would be different this time it seems like its going to be the same. He controls the situation and i have no power and it wont take long until everyone thinks im in the wrong. And im not saying that i didnt do my fair share of bad things that culminated into where im at now but for the people i considered to be my closest friends here say that my actions are childish and immature when all I asked for is space and to stop being harassed and forced into conversation with someone who broke my heart and makes me feel worthless and tried to put me out on the street makes me feel like shit. Like I don’t matter. My feelings dont matter and they never will. And now I’m doubting everything positive that was said to me recently cause now I feel like they were all lies. But like he said they’re not my friends they never were. And I can’t help to think that if they never saw me again it wouldn’t change their lives at all. This isn’t what I wanted. I tried to fix it. I tried to forget all the things he said in the past tell my brain to forget that he didn’t mean it. But I couldn’t and over time I grew to resent him for how he made me feel. Get mad at me because I couldn’t get over that fact that he called me a horrible girlfriend and that if he saw me getting jumped he wouldn’t help me cause I didn’t believe that our friends jumped him because they clearly didnt. Im pretty sure if he had actually gotten jumped he wouldnt have went over to their house 4 days later and gotten drunk with them. And i mean like i said im not so dense to see that I did do some wrong things too. But I never actually tried to hurt his feelings and make him feel bad. I have to work on some anger issues I’m aware. Even though I feel like no one believes me I have been looking for another psychiatrist and therapist just want a specific one. And I feel like I should be comfortable with who I’m talking to and shouldn’t have to compromise on that. I know it’ll take some time to find what I’m looking for but it doesn’t mean I’m not looking. I want to get re medicated cause the meds I have now make me feel like shit. Like sometimes I feel like ima pass out other times I’m a zombie and anything in between. He brings up how they “used to work” and I remember the days he was talking about. I thought they worked too. But they didn’t stop the thoughts or the urges of what I wanted to do to myself they just made me numb I got so disconnected from everything and everyone that anyone who reached out to me I clung to them to stay sane. I know because of this I made some mistakes did some things I know I shouldn’t have done but I wasn’t trying to hurt him or be bad I just wanted to maintain one of the only friendships I had left back at home. But it doesn’t matter cause the friendship got lost all of them did. I don’t have friends back at home anymore not really. I have people that I disconnected from because my dissociative habits got the better of me and I spent most of my time back at home trying to remember what day it was and where the time went and what I was doing (which was nothing) trying so hard to cling to reality but end up cooped up in my room for weeks at a time only leaving it to go to work or the bathroom or eat. I’m not excusing my behavior but I could tell the meds were losing their placebo affect and we’re not meshing with my body. They told me this might happen but I was already bound to come back to memphis at this point and I thought that if I took what I needed when I was too deep in my emotions it would help a little but I was wrong if anything I think it made it worse cause they weren’t reacting well with my body and taking them irregularly can’t be any better. But I was still trying. Really hard. Trying to keep everything together keep my emotions in check because it got to the point where I didn’t feel comfortable expressing myself or my emotions to him. If i wasn’t happy it made him mad. But it’s hard when everything in your brain is pushing you to feel your emotions so strong and even when I tried my hardest I would still be really mad and upset over the words he said to me and I couldn’t forget them. Those words cut so deep that it changed how I felt and so my actions became synonymous. I started to act colder because I was hurt and I felt like he didn’t deserve for me to be sweet or nice because he never understood how much he hurt me everytime. I can’t get over hearing those things be said to me by someone I loved and get over it in 10 mins when he’s ready talk and forget it ever happened and change nothing. I deserve to be able to talk about things when I’m ready and I shouldn’t be forced to or made to feel like a child because it’s not on his terms. Just because he said sorry. I remember when he told me that when I said I’m sorry it didn’t mean shit. And the part that fucks me up the most is that no one told me this in person. They talked about it behind my back but to my face they tell me I’m strong and I’m doing the right thing for me and I shouldn’t have to talk to him if I don’t want to and I deserve my space. Why am I immature? Is it because I took everthing in the house that was mine and put it in the back room so i could look after my things because i was afraid they’d be thrown out? That i sleep on the floor for the moment cause i dont want him to use the fact that i slept in his bed aginst me? Because he told me that they were his property and I can’t sleep in it. That I don’t feel comfortable enough to inhabit another room besides in the very back because he’s made points to tell me that this is “his house ” and give me ultimatums threating to kick me out because I wasn’t here to put my name on the lease so he has the power to (something he told me id never have) even though I pay to live here too but I’ve never truly felt like i was apart of this house no matter how much I tried to decorate and make it feel like our home but it never was mine the whole time I felt like I was paying him to live here not the landlord. Is it because when he told me to pack up my dollar tree shit and get out i took him seriously? Is it because i burned pictures of us and gifts because it was too hard to look at and be reminded of how far my relationship had fallen? By no means does this scenario alone make me want to kill myself but it adds the notion that I believe I am a burden that no one truly wishes to deal with which does make me want to end this sad life i live. He publicly tries to push my buttons make me seen crazy to people. Some people believe him. Through everything the thing that hurts my feelings the most is that everyone still talks to him. If someone treated my friends like this i wouldnt talk to them invite them places when i know they are mentally manipulating and abusing my friend. His feelings and inclusion means more than me and my feelings. He can harrass me in the streets at bars convince people to not talk to me but when he is screaming in my face to the point where he needs to be physically pulled away because I didn’t want to talk to him it’s still my fault. The cops said so too. Tried to get a restraining order and I can’t. Cause even the cops take his side. And my friends were there witnessed it and just pretend like nothing happened or do nothing. I wouldn’t be friends with someone who treated my friends like that so cruelly. I don’t talk to people that my friends have issues with. The most superficial and petty reasons why they would be hurt if i even said hi. And i know they would never say it but i would hurt their feelings. So why cant i be hurt by the fact that no one stopped talking to him. When they see how he treats me. I do what i do for them out of respect and support but they can’t do the same when I’m clearly being harassed. she died i always said it should have been me. Everyone liked her better. She was better than me. Im just a knockoff. If she were still alive my niece and nephew would still be together and my nephew wouldnt be getting abused regularly with us not being able to do anything about it cause the court decided that his asshole sperm donor has more paternal rights than his family who raised him but this pimple on the asscrack of socieity who was never in his life can swoop in and literally snatch him out of school and move him away and we only get to see him 1 weekend out of the month. That 3 days out of the whole fucking month that he doesnt get beat. He has anxiety attacks. Hes 6. When he realizes he has to go back to his “dad” he starts hyperventilating and we have to try to calm him down so he can breathe. I can already tell hes gonna grow up with issues and it breaks my heart that he might grow up to be anything like me in that regard. Meanwhile my niece has had her only immediate family cruelly taken from her by snakes in people skin. Her father was never in her life either. I fear that soon mine won’t be either. My dad won’t tell me everything even though I tell him to tell me I know he holds some stuff back. I think the cancer is spreading and all I think about is how long left I have with him. My grandmother is in the stages of dementia. Soon she won’t remember me I’ll lose the last grandparent I have but not from death. When I was still in the relationship he would tell me I bring home burdens that weigh him down. But he says sorry so I shouldn’t believe the nasty things he says even though he’s said them more than once on different occasions. I just feel so lied to It wouldn’t matter. It doesnt matter. I don’t matter. Honestly I don’t think i ever did But I have to do this I have to stay strong for her. She left me 2 children to take care of. A part of her and I’ll be damned if I fuck it up. I can fuck up my life but not theirs