A Reason To Live

#LookingForAlaska

At the age of six, I grasped onto my mother's shoulders every second I had. I twiddled with her fingers as we walked down the streets and slept with her shirt every morning when she went to work. 

My mother, she was my rock and my reason to live. I lived for her smiles and the compliments she showered me with. The thought of even letting her down never crossed my mind. 

But all that fondness and warmth ended when she was called to my school from the principal. I could see the paleness and embarrassment in her eyes. It was so foreign and cold. 

My principal sat across from my mother on this long white table that had too little space between me and my mom. I felt her grasp on my shoulder like I used to with hers, except hers was filled with anger. 

"I'm sorry to inform you," my principal started, "your daughter has been harming herself and we advise you to get her therapy."

They made me lift up my sleeves to reveal the horrifying lines that marked my skin way too deep. 

"I think she's just itchy," my mom finally says, "it's fine."

I got dragged out that office as if toxin-filled the air inside that office. We went into the car and the thick silence killed me. 

For the first time, my mother didn't feel like my mother. She was no longer my rock or my best friend. Even trying to touch her felt like I was in the wrong place. Our relationship - well, it vanished. 

Family became the last thing I wanted to be associated with. I became the laughing stock in my household, the girl who wanted attention. 

They never forgave me for being depressed. I felt like a stranger inside their house as if they're obligated to feed me, not because they wanted to. Not because I was their daughter. 

I pulled myself up from rock bottom and I did the healthiest thing I could do for myself. The only thing I knew how. 

I bought that plane ticket and I left. I felt like a disgrace and ungrateful because they were still my family. I kept contemplating if I should go back and ask for forgiveness? I lived in a broken studio with another friend until I found a job and supported myself through the hard times. 

The only thing I could say is, that was the best choice of my life. Nobody ever knew the horror behind that beautiful house until I ran away. 

I learned, cutting out toxic family members is okay. It does not make you a bad person. 

I found a reason to live the day I left that house. 

My mother was no longer the reason. 

Once upon a time, she was.