I spent yesterday packing boxes from my former apartment, meticulously studying my memories, my items. It’s then that I came across a blue binder full of poetry, short stories, drawings I had written throughout my younger years.
The letters begin from 2004. I was 12-years-old. The topics of my stories were sexually explicit, contained suicide ideation, physical abuse, and mental health. So much of my poetry revolved around “the voices.”
My heart aches for my younger self. I truly was hurting, I was trapped and the signs were all there. At least to my knowledge, no one noticed the suicide letters I had used as bookmarks. No one noticed the doodles I’d made of a girl hanging from a tree.
The first time that there was widespread alarm for my mental stability was when I was 13, in 7th grade. I had written a short story, 6 pages long, titled, “Find Me, Anthony.” The story revolves around the main character, Lark, who narrates from within a mental institution. She’s a sex addict, mute for 11 months, a witness to her mother’s battery and abuse, an observer to the casual world encompassing her. She has never felt love. Finally, in the end, she finally speaks to her therapist. This was written just months after I was raped by my cousin.
A lot of those words seem to have held true all these years. Looking back, I want so badly to sit there with my young self, hold her, love her. Life continued to spin around me, yet in the midst of it all, I stood there feeling absolutely neglected. I remember thinking, “If only my Dad were alive, he wouldn’t let this happen to me. He would protect me.” That’s where Allie filled the void; all I wanted was love. I wanted someone to hold me and love me, accept me. It breaks my heart to look back on the little girl who would flee to the bathroom when her grandfather was belligerently screaming, only finding solace and desperately seeking love from her imaginary friend.
It’s hard to admit that a lot of my hurt and depression stemmed from the basic desire of just wanting my mom to brush my hair at bedtime, but being so fucking helpless. She was gone. And my dad, I wanted nothing more than to throw a baseball and have him catch it. How is it fair that at 4-years-old, instead of him teaching me how to read, I was throwing small fistfuls of dirt over his casket at his funeral? I still miss him. I hold on to my memories of him. I never talk about them, in order to keep them sacred. But now, I want him here with me. I wanted to share my first car with him. I want him to teach me things about mechanics, about tools, anything…. about life. I want him to worry about me on my drive home. I want him to just be a phone call away when I need him.
God this hurts. I’m 23 and this still hurts like it happened yesterday.
Anyways, I rambled. The point is, it’s painful looking back on that child, and I realize that I’m hurting just the same, and I’m desperate just the same for release.