It was always the eyes that got me. I could walk in that forest forever, getting lost in millions of shades of green and tree bark brown, with raging fireflies floating around, lighting up every corner. A forest of fireflies.
The eyes, the twin moles on his cheek, the soft brown hair which he likes to keep short even though he’s adorable when it’s long, the straight, large nose; all so common to others, but more important than anything in the world to me. It’s weird how realities can change so drastically, how any outsider would see this as just another sappy, cliché love story. I can almost hear a bored voice drawl, “Oh, surprise surprise, you get lost in his eyes, you’re deeply, utterly in love, wow, so believable. Never heard of that before, …show more content…
How much he unknowingly cured me, but at the same time made me so, so, so much worse. You see, before him, the voices could say that I was alone, that I was worthless, that nobody liked me, I was unbearable, annoying, a nuisance. Which was all true, of course, I was, I am a nuisance. And selfish. Oh, so selfish. I couldn’t even keep it fucking together long enough to hide my tears from my family (because God forbid if I have any friends who actually want to be around me), or act happy enough to convince them I was, so they didn’t have to spend so much bloody money on psychiatrists and drugs. That was all I was, a depressed waste of money, time, space… I tried to tell them I didn’t need them. I had music. Music was better than the pills. But they wouldn't listen, they didn’t understand. But I don’t blame them. You find out your seemingly fine daughter actually drags blades across her skin and walks across the street hoping a car will put her under and you’re supposed to believe her when she doesn’t need anti-depressants? Right. I wouldn’t have believed it …show more content…
One time I think he figured it out, but if he did he never said anything. The rest didn’t seem to catch on.
My doctors say I need to stop living in the past, but writing to you helps, dear diary. Screaming into unresponsive paper until my thoughts are hoarse and are too tired to harm me. I don’t cry much, because I was always told not to cry, to count to ten and let it go. I counted to ten, but then I never let it go. It just brews inside me like a storm. Ink and paper replace tears.
They keep telling me to stop talking about him in present tense. Keep telling me,
“Lea, please stop this. He’s dead, he’s been dead for years, don’t you remember?”
But I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember those deranged men barging in, me jumping in front of him like a shield. I glance at the scar on my stomach. Nobody knew how they had gotten guns. The bullet had lodged right above my left hipbone, but I had kept on, cutting, punching and kicking anyone of them who got too close. Then that bastard hit me in the head. The next thing I remembered was relieved doctors around me. Apparently it was a miracle I survived. I almost laughed at the irony, delirious
The eyes, the twin moles on his cheek, the soft brown hair which he likes to keep short even though he’s adorable when it’s long, the straight, large nose; all so common to others, but more important than anything in the world to me. It’s weird how realities can change so drastically, how any outsider would see this as just another sappy, cliché love story. I can almost hear a bored voice drawl, “Oh, surprise surprise, you get lost in his eyes, you’re deeply, utterly in love, wow, so believable. Never heard of that before, …show more content…
How much he unknowingly cured me, but at the same time made me so, so, so much worse. You see, before him, the voices could say that I was alone, that I was worthless, that nobody liked me, I was unbearable, annoying, a nuisance. Which was all true, of course, I was, I am a nuisance. And selfish. Oh, so selfish. I couldn’t even keep it fucking together long enough to hide my tears from my family (because God forbid if I have any friends who actually want to be around me), or act happy enough to convince them I was, so they didn’t have to spend so much bloody money on psychiatrists and drugs. That was all I was, a depressed waste of money, time, space… I tried to tell them I didn’t need them. I had music. Music was better than the pills. But they wouldn't listen, they didn’t understand. But I don’t blame them. You find out your seemingly fine daughter actually drags blades across her skin and walks across the street hoping a car will put her under and you’re supposed to believe her when she doesn’t need anti-depressants? Right. I wouldn’t have believed it …show more content…
One time I think he figured it out, but if he did he never said anything. The rest didn’t seem to catch on.
My doctors say I need to stop living in the past, but writing to you helps, dear diary. Screaming into unresponsive paper until my thoughts are hoarse and are too tired to harm me. I don’t cry much, because I was always told not to cry, to count to ten and let it go. I counted to ten, but then I never let it go. It just brews inside me like a storm. Ink and paper replace tears.
They keep telling me to stop talking about him in present tense. Keep telling me,
“Lea, please stop this. He’s dead, he’s been dead for years, don’t you remember?”
But I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember those deranged men barging in, me jumping in front of him like a shield. I glance at the scar on my stomach. Nobody knew how they had gotten guns. The bullet had lodged right above my left hipbone, but I had kept on, cutting, punching and kicking anyone of them who got too close. Then that bastard hit me in the head. The next thing I remembered was relieved doctors around me. Apparently it was a miracle I survived. I almost laughed at the irony, delirious