When I was younger I used to hit my head against the walls or scratch off my skin in order to stop the pain. I guess it worked, to some extent. After all, a killer migraine was better than a killer heartache. Transferring the pain from the interior to exterior helped dull everything I thought of in my mind. Suddenly, nursing my bleeding scabs and headaches seemed more important than going to a counsellor or even talking to anyone. I guess part of the reason why I was so addicted to it was that it gave me a reason to not care about the ache inside me, the pain that I felt all the time. It made me numb and well, at least I didn't have to bother with how wrong I felt. How wrong everything felt to me. I mean, I could always put a band-aid on and suddenly the bleeding would stop. But I can't bandage my heart, and not even the strongest of painkillers could kill the pain I felt in my head. Perhaps this is just some cheesy exaggerated version of the lullabies I used to sing. You know the one about asking the rain to go away, and how the old man "bumped his head and couldn't wake up again"? Maybe some part of me always hoped that tomorrow wouldn't come. Maybe some part of that not-so-childlike 5 year old me is still hoping I didn't need to wake up, that some eternal slumber would take over, and force me out of the reality that almost always seemed like a living nightmare. But sadly in real-life, we can't will the rain to stop with a song, and even though it's constantly pouring down, we still need to continue. (Or pray for yourself to fall into a coma, and hopefully never wake up till your family decides to cut off your life support, then you die. Dying in my 'sleep' was always something I desired anyway.) I would take another road to my departure. Unlike my entry, I wouldn't be kicking and screaming anymore.
To the one still reading:
Firstly, I think this chapter was complete and utter bull, but I kept it because it's a genuine expression of my feelings right now, and some parts of it seemed really nice to me. Also, this is a very sensitive topic, and it touches a lot on my childhood. Hope you enjoyed, though.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Wanderers
Poesía" She was written poetry While He was just a draft Combined together They couldn't have made art For one didn't rhyme with the other And sadly Both weren't in sync together. " (This is the first official book I've posted on wattpad and intended to k...
