Under My Skin

In Your Eyes

If I'm being entirely truthful, my aunts were never fond of me. They were kind of weirded out by me. They're not really very comfortable with the topic of mental illness. And for goodness sake, my whole life is the topic of mental illness.
It makes them uncomfortable.
It wasn't always this bad, no, but I've always been fairly troubled. And that scares them. Even if it's just my anxiety. Honestly, I don't understand. I don't get what makes them so uncomfortable, I don't get what makes them so wary of it all. I'm still a person. I'm still their nephew.

They tend to treat me like I'm not even related to them. Like I'm some alien. And the worst part is, I can't even do anything about it. If it was something I could change, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can't change it. I have problems. None of which have ever made me dangerous or 'scary', but they act like I'm such a freak. Like I scare them. There's nothing remotely scary about me, I cry when I watch that insurance commercial with the lonely dog in it. My favorite activity as a teenager was feeding the ducks at the park. I'd make my own birdseed mix for the pigeons, I'd buy bags of frozen peas for the ducks. I'm probably the least scary person I can possibly think of. I mean, I've got an intimidating height, but I more than make up for it in the way I carry myself.  The absolute lack of confidence is more than enough to cancel out my height.

I don't know, I think maybe they see it as if I want to hurt myself, I must want to hurt others, too. That's simply not true. I'm not like that, I don't want anybody to be hurt. I'd never even think about laying a hand on somebody else. I was hurting. My parents had just passed, I was at rock bottom. I just wanted it to be over.
Having urges to hurt myself doesn't mean I have the urge to hurt anyone else. And it's not like that was the beginning of their apprehension towards me. They were always uncomfortable, even when I was young. My panic attacks made them uncomfortable, my ocd made them uncomfortable. It wasn't nearly as bad then as it is now, but it always freaked them out. And for that, they treated me like I was just some estranged, distant relation. Like they didn't even know me.
And they treated it like it was my father's fault, too. Since my mother was so normal all their lives, it must've been my father, he had to have passed it down to me. They never liked my father. They blamed everything on him. They thought my mother was too good for him. That he wasn't worth any of her time or love. He was a good sport about it, though. He knew how much my mother loved her sisters, so he never said a word to her about it. He didn't want to infringe on the relationship she had with them. He just took it.

It's no surprise they see me as just a worse version of him. They hated him. And they hate me, too. They just hide it a little better.

I could barely even feel my hands, my fingers were numb under the cold water and the constant abrasion of the scrub brush.

"You okay in there, Kevin?" My neighbor's voice called from the living room

"Fine!" I called back, suddenly a bit panicked

"You've been in there a while, you need some help?" He asked, strolling into the kitchen

"Nope." I snapped shortly

"You sure? I don't mind, really.." he came up behind me, placing both hands on my shoulders, suddenly stopping when he saw what I'd done to myself
"Fuck, Man.."

"I know- I know" I huffed, though continuing to to scrub my hands raw

"God, you poor thing.." he sighed, quickly turning off the faucet before I could do any further damage "what's the matter?"

"Nothing, it's- I'm fine." I stammered, almost in a state of shock, staring down at my bloody and torn hands

"Yeah, clearly" he said sarcastically, rolling up my sleeves to my elbows and taking the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink