Going Home for Eid
My bus is tonight. And to be honest, I'm not all that excited to go home.
I mean, I'm excited and can't wait to meet Sis and Harraz and my siblings again, but I'm not too sure about my parents. After the whole 'crazy' fiasco, they treated me like nothing happened and, while a part of me is not surprised with the treatment, another part is also scared.
Fear has become a common comrade to me these years.
I know Sis said they can't understand, but will they blame me for it? I'm sure they already did, they were quite vocal about my misgivings the last time I tried to tell them. Even if they already know about my state, will they consider anything in regards to it?
All these years, I've become accustomed to directing all wrongdoings to myself. I wasn't like that as a child. It started because of "her" voice. Telling me to "stay still" and "don't fight" and "you have nice skin" and "it'll be just a quick moment" and everything in between. It doesn't make sense, but after The Incident, I began to direct everything wrong towards myself. After all, I was 13.
I misinterpreted an assignment. I was too stupid and careless.
I hurt someone without meaning to. I was a rude bitch.
My grades dropped down. I'm an embarrassment to my family.
My face look ugly. I'm nothing important.
I don't care about some certain things. I'm an unfeeling robotic rock.
I care too much about certain things. I'll lose it.
As I turn 14, 15, 16, and 17, I fought these things that began to ingrain in my head. They scream at me in the nights and I desperately fight them, trying to survive just another day. I experimented the ways to keep them at bay. The first time, I retched into the toilet and exhausted myself into passing out. It was the first time I found out that I'd slept the whole night in calm quietness. After that, everything was made on purpose.
I began to categorize them according to the level of attack. If my head is screaming, welts and bruises do the trick. If my chest is suffocating, retching the whole night away is the thing. If my skin feels like it's gonna combust, curl into a tight ball and don't move.
I didn't actually cut until SPM. That was when my brother had a fall out with me.
He triggered me into snapping, and 3 days before my first paper of SPM, I finally had become a proper self-harmer. I discovered they last a lot longer than the bruises and more satisfying, so I didn't see a reason to stop.
If I'm triggered in a public area, I just remember the feeling when the tip of the scissors sink in and the addictive feeling of throb when the blood flows out. It calmed me.
Meeting Amelia and Irene has been godsend. They picked me up from the ground and cared for me. They care if I hurt. Even if the one who was hurting me is myself.
They show me they love me regardless of my mistakes.
They accept my bad days with my good days.
And I try to be there for them always, trying my best to give them what they've returned to me.
My life.
But Mom and Dad are different. They raised me from when I was a child, and they have no knowledge whatsoever of my battles and what instigated them. They simply don't have enough data. They can't understand why I'm refusing to eat some days.
They can't understand why I'm bundled up in my blanket, refusing to get up from my bed some days.
They can't understand why I talk so little some days.
They can't understand why I hide in the corner in social events some days.
They never notice the bruises or the trembling.
They chalked it up to my introverted personality and that's all there is to it.
Frankly, I'm already halfway recovered by the time I get this monthly psychiatry session. It's because of the other half, I'm afraid.
Anything and everything my family does and says set me back three steps back. Sometimes five steps back according to the direness of the situation.
The one thing that never fails to set my recovery back into its almost original state before I even met Amelia and Irene has always been my family. I know it doesn't make sense.
The things they say are in the heat of the moment. They don't mean it.
I know that.
Yet for all the years my mind has turned on me, it doesn't get the memo.
Worthless.
Imbecile.
Snob.
Disappointment.
Lazyass.
Incompetent.
Mom and Dad are only human. So is Sis. They make mistakes, too.
I know this. I know.
It's me who should change for the better. To not take things at face value too much.
To let go.
Yet on my darkest days, they play on a loop.
I'm scared to go home.
I'm scared what they'll think when they see I take my medicine.
I'm scared what they'll try to do.
Well...on the bright side, I have Sis and Harraz.
I mean, I'm excited and can't wait to meet Sis and Harraz and my siblings again, but I'm not too sure about my parents. After the whole 'crazy' fiasco, they treated me like nothing happened and, while a part of me is not surprised with the treatment, another part is also scared.
Fear has become a common comrade to me these years.
I know Sis said they can't understand, but will they blame me for it? I'm sure they already did, they were quite vocal about my misgivings the last time I tried to tell them. Even if they already know about my state, will they consider anything in regards to it?
All these years, I've become accustomed to directing all wrongdoings to myself. I wasn't like that as a child. It started because of "her" voice. Telling me to "stay still" and "don't fight" and "you have nice skin" and "it'll be just a quick moment" and everything in between. It doesn't make sense, but after The Incident, I began to direct everything wrong towards myself. After all, I was 13.
I misinterpreted an assignment. I was too stupid and careless.
I hurt someone without meaning to. I was a rude bitch.
My grades dropped down. I'm an embarrassment to my family.
My face look ugly. I'm nothing important.
I don't care about some certain things. I'm an unfeeling robotic rock.
I care too much about certain things. I'll lose it.
As I turn 14, 15, 16, and 17, I fought these things that began to ingrain in my head. They scream at me in the nights and I desperately fight them, trying to survive just another day. I experimented the ways to keep them at bay. The first time, I retched into the toilet and exhausted myself into passing out. It was the first time I found out that I'd slept the whole night in calm quietness. After that, everything was made on purpose.
I began to categorize them according to the level of attack. If my head is screaming, welts and bruises do the trick. If my chest is suffocating, retching the whole night away is the thing. If my skin feels like it's gonna combust, curl into a tight ball and don't move.
I didn't actually cut until SPM. That was when my brother had a fall out with me.
He triggered me into snapping, and 3 days before my first paper of SPM, I finally had become a proper self-harmer. I discovered they last a lot longer than the bruises and more satisfying, so I didn't see a reason to stop.
Meeting Amelia and Irene has been godsend. They picked me up from the ground and cared for me. They care if I hurt. Even if the one who was hurting me is myself.
They show me they love me regardless of my mistakes.
They accept my bad days with my good days.
And I try to be there for them always, trying my best to give them what they've returned to me.
My life.
But Mom and Dad are different. They raised me from when I was a child, and they have no knowledge whatsoever of my battles and what instigated them. They simply don't have enough data. They can't understand why I'm refusing to eat some days.
They can't understand why I'm bundled up in my blanket, refusing to get up from my bed some days.
They can't understand why I talk so little some days.
They can't understand why I hide in the corner in social events some days.
They never notice the bruises or the trembling.
They chalked it up to my introverted personality and that's all there is to it.
Frankly, I'm already halfway recovered by the time I get this monthly psychiatry session. It's because of the other half, I'm afraid.
Anything and everything my family does and says set me back three steps back. Sometimes five steps back according to the direness of the situation.
The one thing that never fails to set my recovery back into its almost original state before I even met Amelia and Irene has always been my family. I know it doesn't make sense.
The things they say are in the heat of the moment. They don't mean it.
I know that.
Yet for all the years my mind has turned on me, it doesn't get the memo.
Mom and Dad are only human. So is Sis. They make mistakes, too.
I know this. I know.
It's me who should change for the better. To not take things at face value too much.
To let go.
I'm scared to go home.
I'm scared what they'll think when they see I take my medicine.
I'm scared what they'll try to do.
Well...on the bright side, I have Sis and Harraz.
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