Unsteady
Rating: M
AN: While watching an episode of Bleach (an anime) I was inspired to write this. Hope it goes as well as I plan. (Seven years later, surprise, it didn't.)!
AN: *TRIGGER WARNING*
This is a very dark story that I started many years ago during the darkest part of my life. The angst in this story was born from the mentally abusive relationship that I was living through at the time. The "Prologue" below is not a typical one. In order to write a story, you learn at a very early age that every story has to have a setting. Beyond the traditional setting, this is intended to describe the setting of the writer when this story was brought to life. The following contains thoughts of suicide, a near suicide attempt, descriptions of mental abuse, self hatred and the aftermath of abuse. If any of these things will serve as a trigger to you, please do not read. The story itself was created out of the very real darkness I felt in my life at the time. I do not call myself a victim, but rather a survivor. I am now in a healthy, loving relationship with my life partner and want nothing more than to live my life to the fullest. But this story symbolizes a chapter of my life that I would like to close. If you fear you could be triggered by any of this or the tags listed for this story please do not read. However, if anyone needs to talk to someone my PM is always open.
Prologue: The Bravest Thing
This is the story of a woman who wanted nothing more than to die; written by a woman that wanted nothing more than to die.
A woman who was tired of being a hero and all the baggage that came with it. Such a useless title.
Hero
Synonymous with carrying the weight of a world on your shoulders.
In literary studies they teach you that, above all else, never look for the author inside of a story. They teach you that the author is outside of the tale, and nothing in that writer's life should be connected to the inner workings of a story in any significant way.
What bullshit.
A story cannot exist outside of the creator. In every nook and cranny, you will find a piece of them there. It may be as simple a feeling. A small glimpse into the mind. Time cannot be removed either. The woman who wanted to die, was never able to finish this tale.
I remember the day I wanted to die.
I remember dialing his number as I laid in the bathtub, the razor blade in my hand. I remember saying the words. I remember his response.
"I don't have time for your bullshit."
And I remember the sound of silence as he hung up the phone after I told him I wanted to kill myself.
I don't remember much else; I don't remember what I had done that day— did I work? Did I do homework? Was I in school? I don't even remember running the bath. I don't know what day of the week- I don't remember the day, the time, the month. I don't even remember the year. It's like that moment was suspended in time separate from everything else. It's like that singular day began with that phone call.
I remember the deafening silence after he hung up the phone. I remember brushing the blade against my skin. I remember crying. I remember thinking everyone would be better off. I remember thinking, "at least I will be with granny again."
The last thing I remember is, as I put the blade against my wrist and told the world goodbye, the ringing phone wouldn't stop. I remember the name Mommy on the screen.
My mother would later tell me that she has been vacuuming the floor that day. It had been like every other day, until she felt like she was going to die. She felt like she would lose everything if she didn't call me. She had to call me or she would die. She didn't know why she had to call me. She just did.
I remember answering the phone, shouting out that I had to come to her house with a vacuum cleaner— the first thing she could think of. I remember her asking me if I was ok. And then I remember crying, this broken shell of a girl crying out to her mom, no, I'm not okay mommy.
I don't remember anything else.
I don't remember how I got to her house. I don't remember anything about the rest of the day or the days after. I remember telling my now ex husband I wouldn't be coming home, but I don't remember actually telling him. Just that I did. I don't remember anything.
The next thing I remember is taking my baby brother to the grocery. He was still small enough to sit in the cart. He was still little enough to have his pretty curly hair. I remember those big, beautiful eyes looking up at me and asking me, "Are you going to live with us now?" I remember him asking me to stay because "He's mean to my sissy. I don't like him."
I didn't make the decision for myself. I did it for him. That precious little boy. My little hero.
When I wanted to do nothing more than go to sleep and never wake up, they gave me a reason to get up everyday. My mother, my brothers, and the girl who I would learn to love as my sister. They distracted me and gave me reasons to breath.
Looking back at that woman— I wish I could say she seems like a person, completely removed from myself but the truth is she is still there and will never go away. There is this dark hole inside of me with a little girl, her head buried into her knees. A little girl who lives with his voice inside of her head.
You're not good enough.
You're not small enough
You're not pretty enough
You're not smart enough
You're don't work enough
You're not successful enough
You're not neat enough
You don't deserve happiness.
A broken, shell of a person— who allowed herself to be hulled out and mentally left for dead by a man who never felt like the world gave him what he deserved just because he was breathing.
I hate that girl.
I hate everything about her. I hate looking in the mirror and seeing her look back at me. I hate the way she talks; the way she would shrink herself small enough— lay low enough on the ground and hope, pray maybe it would be enough to be left alone.
She didn't fight. She never did anything for herself.
And when I look in the mirror all I see is her.
It was in these moments that I wrote this story. That I crafted the bones of Unsteady from the darkness inside myself. The woman who wanted to die because she simply would never be good enough.
I write this many years later, and I am no longer that woman anymore. Ironically enough the woman who wanted to die, who has found her home in the pages of books about The Boy Who Lived since the third grade, has become the woman who wants to live. Not by myself, but by my support system and my soulmate, my love who loves a broken husk of a woman who has lost her sense of self.
I am no longer the woman that wrote this story, but a part of her will live inside me for the rest of my life. I have come to terms with that and I fight her in the mirror everyday. In many ways I find my husband and myself reflected in these characters— the boy who was to young to be brought into war, who did what he had to simply to survive— and the woman who always tried to follow the rules, dedicated to her studies, who was tirelessly taken advantage of even by those she trusted most. The woman who never gave herself enough credits and is remembered for her book smarts alone.
When my husband told me he loved me, he said that, "I have never been good with words, but I have always expressed myself through music." He played me "I Caught Fire" by The Used.
He didn't know that I had listened to the very same song as a teenager and would think to myself— pray for someone to love me like that.
He couldn't have known. I had never told anyone.
I found my peace, but I feel compelled to complete Unsteady. To close this chapter of the girl who wanted to die, so the woman who wants to live can start a story of her own.
I seen a post online today that I will leave as a closing. For all those lost in the darkness; for all those who read this and want nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up, know this:
"The bravest thing I have ever done is to live when I wanted to do nothing more than die."