ODE TO SLEEP

「001. hypnotic」

"You may die a hundred deaths without a break in the mental turmoil. Or, you may keep your body and only die in the mind. The death of the mind is the birth of wisdom."
— Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj. I Am That.

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Disclaimer: This story contains multiple scenes of descriptive gore, eating disorders, attempts of suicide, mental disorders, and many others. I advise that no one under 18 reads this and those who do, please consider these things before you begin reading.

Thank you, and enjoy.

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        WHEN I was five years old, I was found wandering along the side of a four-lane freeway in Aomori, Japan. That's roughly nine hours away from Tokyo, Japan. I was just walking along the road, all of my clothes were torn, I had no shoes on nor was I dressed for the weather, and I was covered in blood. Some people on their way over to the island called the cops and they stopped me about a mile down the road.

The officers were pretty nice to me, asking me where I was going, whose blood was on me, if I was alright, and how I got there. The only problem: I couldn't answer any of their questions. I had no idea what I was doing there. I didn't know whose blood was on me. I didn't even know if I was alright or not.

When they put me into the back of the warm cop car, they asked me what my name was. And it was then that I realized something bad was going to follow. I didn't know my name. I didn't even have a clue what it could have been. I just stared at that police officer and I started to cry. I didn't know who I was, where I came from, or where I was going. I was scared. Terrified.

I spent days in the hospital. Doctor after doctor came in to see me, always seeming to ask the same questions, all just worded differently. Did I bump my head? What direction did I come from? Did I know how long I'd been walking? Did I know what letter my name started with? Did I remember what my mom or my dad looked like? Or what our house looked like? Did I remember just a few digits from their phone number?

I lost count of the doctors that came in and looked at the scars that had shown up along my skin. I heard them whispering about abuse behind their folders and their hands. I could see the look of pity in the nurses' eyes when they would come and check on me or bring me something to eat.

Everyone looked at me like that, and I got so used to seeing it that I believed that was the only way anyone would look at me. With pity. The poor little Yamada Taro1 boy who didn't have a name but had severe forms of abuse was present. They never asked me if anyone ever hit me, though. They would just tell me that they hoped everything worked out before they moved on with their lives.

My picture was taken while I was sitting on my hospital bed. They told me they would use it so they could find my mom and my dad. A few days turned into weeks. Then to months. After almost a year, the state released me into foster care. I never figured out who my parents were if I had any at all.

My first foster parents were nice. They had a cat named Salmon. I was there for about five days when I heard my foster dad yell for the first time. It wasn't at me or my foster mom, but at Salmon. He knocked a vase down off the TV stand and it shattered.

I don't know why, but it terrified me. Before I could even think, apologies were spilling over my lips and I was backing away from him. I swore to him that I wouldn't do it again, I promise it wouldn't happen ever again. I begged him not to hurt me.

They were so confused. They watched me break down in their living room, screaming and crying because I was petrified. If he got close to me I just cried harder. I curled into that poor woman's arms and begged him not to hurt us.