Ashttyn Marceline

My Mania (The Beginning)

It's only natural, that I haven't had the best of memory regarding my childhood.

Only certain moments seemed to stand out compared to the rest. Of course, there were times a food I had eaten or a TV show I came across on the internet will pop up in my life every now and then, and I'll remember the little things I used to enjoy growing up. But that only happens every once in a while, although I do secretly wish it would happen more often.

My first memory, I was only three and we were sitting in a lit gazebo only a block away from our relative's house. Me, my mother, carrying a baby in her stomach and my father, who had been holding her against him with the most tender of touches. We were in the Philippines at that time and outside was a late, breezy night which was warm no matter the weather.

I had been holding a chocolate bar wrapped in a pretty pink plastic packaging as I left there and an older boy seemed to catch me on the way out. I stared up at him. I can't remember exactly what I had been thinking at the time, but no matter the mind, he had not let me think, nor did he let me speak as he snatched my chocolate away. About to cry out, I see another taller figure than the boy, and I recognize him as my brother. He scolded the smaller bastard as he gave me back my chocolate. I didn't speak or cry. But as if it was only yesterday, I could recall easy the amount of adoration I had for him. 'He was so cool!'

     My next memory was so vivid, I can almost smell the cookies my father had been baking that day. I was five, and we were back in our home, Somewhere in Canada. Our house was large and by the entrance, a piano which my mother had taught me and my older brother to play. I remember her fingers intertwining with mine, showing me the notes to the song she made herself with a smile so proud and grateful. She did the same with my brother, as my younger one struggled to even carry the violin he so desperately wanted to play. On the outside, we played notes that sounded like nails against a chalkboard, but to us, it was a symphony. The beauty I called my mother then carried the song forward, singing to us simple words we were yet to understand. I imagined it was only me she was reciting it to, nothing else but she mattered at that moment. Her eyes fell on me. I was different.

    That same night. I couldn't sleep as fireworks boomed outside. Something about graduation I couldn't care less for. Everyone had gone to sleep and the only ones left awake were me and my mother. I remember sneaking down the stairs, catching her weeping softly as she played the song she taught us on the piano. Her eyes were glassy when they caught mine, and immediately she ushered me over to her side. I was crying too. I hadn't noticed or felt the tears. But I simply was made aware of them when she brushed the stream away delicately. She treated me like a porcelain doll. Like something so frail and fragile that a single nudge could destroy me and shatter every part of my body like it was glass; fine china. The piano in front of us was so shiny, it reflected our bodies as we sat there in silence. I listened to her sniff and whisper to me reassuring words. I didn't understand what she was so worried about, but when she told me what I had already been aware of, I knew immediately, I would soon end up like her. "You're different my love. You're like me." She said she wished that I hadn't become someone like her. Someone deranged, barren. I didn't understand, but it sounded foreign and ominous to me either way.

    Shortly after, weeks had passed and I could recall vividly the scent and looks of the office I was in. I was told I was being 'diagnosed,' whatever that word meant to me as a five-year-old. I know now that ever since then, nothing has been the same. It could never be. Not when my brothers grimaced at me with so much disgust, so much anger. It was unfair. I hadn't done anything to them, so why was I always left out? Why was I the last to understand what their glares meant? Why was I different? Why did I have to differ from them? Other kids? The school was torture and every tantrum I had was all the fault of it and how it ran. I was beginning to get angry. Not only with those around me, but with myself. One day I'll be beaming, the center of attention and the next I feel like the only thing I was capable of doing was to draw out imaginary lines with the details lining my ceiling. Everything felt dull. Numb. Colours were shadowed with ugly shades of grey black and white and every school day I endured while in that state felt like I had a constant lump in my throat. I didn't know who I was, who I could be. Was I faking everything? Was I just lying without even realizing it? Every time these thoughts replaced my good ones, I always thought back to my mother's kind words. Telling me everything was all gonna be okay. How many of my favourite artists were just as special as me. But none of them mattered, not to me. I only ever felt comforted when I remembered I inherited the specialness she had bottled within her. She was who I wanted to turn out like. And I knew by how things were going. I was gonna be just like her. I told her this one time. She laughed, brushed strands of hair out of my face and replaced my tears with her lips. "I want you to hold only the best parts of me Marceline. No matter how special you and I are. My last wish is for you to end up like me," She paused and I felt the lump in my throat again. "The bad parts at least."