When I was young, I had the tendency to feel guilty for a lot of things. I felt guilty for things that I can no longer think about for long, in fear of spiralling into a well filled with the tears of depression and the sweat of anxiety.
For example, I would feel guilty for how much money my single mother was spending on me. I would feel guilty for the few times she had to stay up overnight to help me weather my colds.
But the day I hit the big 6, I changed. (Apparently.)
Within that year I learnt to tell lies. Not the little innocent slithers that most young children tell, but rather huge gaping lies that often left my mum embarrassed at the tales her child was telling those around her.
The lies lead to arguments and tantrums full of screaming and tears, sometimes with the occasional slap in order to remind me of my inferior position.
One could argue that I was too young to know what my behaviour would do to our relationship in the future. Let's just say that at my current age of 16, our arguments have enjoyed huge increases over the last 10 years, growing in frquency, volume, duration and consequence.that the lies I told had the common denominator of seeking attentionm
My mother worked every second she could - as she does now - leaving me with a live-in babysitter. Her life revolved around training to get further in her field and studying to pass the exams that allowed us to stay in the country and get a job that would provide us enough money for me to receive all the teddy bear companions that I needed.
The last 10 years also gave way to my increasingly unstable mind, forcing me to ignore the guilt for the sacrifices made around me and pushing my thoughts to focus on other topics.
For example, my mind thinks about the number of times I was left alone at home whilst she worked, despite my tender age. Or the way she constantly disregards my need for privacy. More recently I have thought about the way my entire family handle my mental illness. By focusing on the things that they are doing wrong, I am able to distract my mind from lingering over the knawing guilt. Unfortunately, it is not always enough.
And when it's not enough, I am thrown into what can only be described as a pit of extreme sadness and frustration. It makes me want to kick and scream but for some reason something stops me, so I have to settle for a less than satisfying clench of the toes and jaw.
In my head I go through the things that I owe my family, increasing the list of things that prove my guilt. Another part of me tries to justify their loss with ideas other people have given me in the past -such as when I was told that all mothers sacrifice sleep and suffer stress because of their children, yet it isn't something to feel guilty about. Then there is a third part of me telling myself how terrible a person I am for the way in which I blame my faults on those who try to help me.
Needless to say, this conflict goes on for a long time.
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So... if any of you can relate to those thoughts crawling around in your head, please tell me!
I'm not sure what the next chapter will be about but judging by my current anger towards everyone around me, it will probably be Chapter 2 - The Anger.
Bye for now!
YOU ARE READING
The Weight We Bear
Non-Fiction"Do you think that the previous diagnosis is accurate?" - If I knew, I wouldn't be here. "We can only help you if you want to be helped!" - I have no choice but to be here. Don't pretend I do. "It's just a matter of self-control. You're not an anima...
