The Untitled Story of an Anxiety Disorder

Untitled Part 14

I wish it didn't hurt so much... but I also wish it hurt more. The pain proves that something is wrong. It proves that the things they're doing are bad. It proves that nothing was wrong with me and that they are causing the problems. It proves that before this I was "normal". Just another kid in another country in another state in another city in another house. Huh... I guess it all started with "normal", a word I used to recognize. Now it's just an unknown word in an unknown book written by an unknown author. But I've written it just now, so I guess "normal" is a part of this story. I guess it's okay. "Normal" used to be my best friend.

But then "normal" left me.

It is so hard to watch your brother come home sobbing. It it so hard to watch your parents walk in after him. It is so hard to not know what happened, to fight of the urge to pry and ask. But all you can do is wait for the tears to stop streaming down his face and for your parents to stop yelling at him long enough for you to wrap your scarred arms around his newly scarred body. He seems uncomfortable at first, unfamiliar with the warmth of your body because he hasn't been hugged in a long time, but he slowly gains comfort and lets himself embrace your small body. It is hard to not ask what happened even if you have a small inkling slowly trickling into your mind. You know what happened you just can't bear to say it. You can't bear for those horrible words to float out of your mouth. You know what's been happening even if no one has told you. Because you are the young one and no one would want to tarnish your innocent soul with the garish lives they secretly lead. But as it turns out, you already know... so what were they saving you from?

 The house I live in isn't the picture perfect Cinderella cottage that it seems from afar. There is no fairy god mother that will whisk me away, there is no horse drawn carriage or glass slippers. But there are screaming parents and drugged up brothers, there are my tear stained pillows, KEEP OUT sign on my door, friends that won't answer my calls or texts, there are rips in the perfectly hung up clothes in my closet from digging my fingers in, there are band-aids strewn on the alphabetically organized bookshelf's in my room, and there is blood dripping from my wrists onto the dirtless floor, a bloody knife hanging cautionlessly in my hand, and there is a face in the mirror, a face looking up at me with her puffy green eyes, tear streaked face and cracked lips. You can see the hints of innocence and longing left on her face after the storm swept passed. But the storm must have taken her vocal cords because she has the inability to say something about her pain, she doesn't think it compares to the rest of them. She's right, it doesn't compare. It is so much worse. 

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