You know the hardest thing about goodbyes is knowing that you can’t say hello again.
My mum left when I was sixteen, dad when I was eighteen. It sucked because at that point I was an adult, an adult who no longer needed a family. But family makes you whole. Which is why I guess I’m not. I never knew any other family; we had been excommunicated when I was born, I guess. The daughter of a christian mother and a devout catholic. They made it work: I didn’t.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this; I don’t know why I decided to actually listen to my therapist and write in my ‘trauma diary’ as he calls it. It won’t bring them back! But alas, I feel I must if my story is to be told.
I cried for days after my mum had passed on. That was 2 years, 3 months and 14 days ago, yet it still feels like yesterday. Her fair skin paled by the sickness that had a hold of her heart, eyes hardly seeing anything important, her once gorgeous auburn hair tangled and matted. She smiled at me as if I was the only thing in the world; but then her breath stopped escaping. It stopped all together. My dad didn’t take it well. He drank away the pain until his liver poisoned him and he got to see my mum all over again. Without me.
The rest of the world carried on though.
The rest of the world didn’t even know what had happened.
All through school I heard whispers and felt the pointed stares from people when I entered a room, but you get used to it. The only good thing that happened from my becoming an orphan was the school bully left me alone. Is that a bad thing to say? I don’t think so. My therapist says trauma shows itself in different ways so I guess this is mine.
Well, hey, now you are all caught up on my past, let’s talk about my future: it’s December 29th and this is my final day alive. I have organised everything, from the roommates being out of the apartment, to handing all my school assignments in early, so people believe I was clever. Everything planned to perfection. I guess this is just my other way of dealing with trauma. The pills are in my room, hidden away in my sock drawer. A few doses of antidepressants should do the trick, I hope.
Dear reader, if you are reading this now, I am most likely either dead or have chickened out and my therapist is reading this back to me in the hope that it cures me. But just know that I may be lying on the bathroom floor, lifeless and cold, but I’m happy. Happy that I can have a family once more even if it’s not on earth. Happy that I can forget the pain and the suffering.