‘I never wanted you to be my saviour….’

‘Maybe I told myself I could be.’

What made him think I wanted to be saved? Wanted to be better? Maybe I’d gotten used to the hands tightening around my throat, unable to breath, maybe the suffocation reminded me I was alive. My lungs screaming for air reminding me I could feel, maybe I needed this. It was the sting of my blades as they sunk deeper into me, breaking my skin…maybe I liked the dark crimson red that flowed out. Maybe I wanted to bleed. Maybe I wanted to know I still could. 

 

He told me to cry when I wanted to, he said it was a release. 

I never felt it. That freedom that came from letting the pain flow out of you. I never understood how one could leave their pain behind and carry on. My pain reminded me, that once upon a time, in a land not forgotten, I was that girl, with the alcoholic father, with the bruised mother, the girl who smiled because she wanted to be like the others, happy, fuck I wanted happy. I wanted the bliss of knowing that in a moment I was free to simply be and not worry about being the one who ran, the one who is still running. Maybe I was afraid that letting go would make me less of myself. Like I would lose myself in happiness. Drown in bliss and forget where I came from, maybe I needed to be reminded I could fall again just as easily as I rose.

 

‘You are worthy.’

It was my twisted definition of humility that kept me beneath everyone. Feeling unworthy because feeling like I deserved anything more than satiation would be wrong. It had to be. Everyone always said how pretty I was, beautiful, they told me, I began to always see flaws so as not to internalise their niceties, I told myself they were niceties, pleasantries, they said it because they had to, they couldn’t mean it if I couldn’t mean it. They couldn’t see what I wouldn’t. And soon enough, I begun to believe it. Modesty became shame just as quickly as solitude became solace. I never wanted to be saved, I threw myself to the dogs, I should’ve expected to come back bruised. Bruised, my ego reminding me of years before when he, took something from me, innocence, I didn’t understand what made him yearn for the touch of a child. I didn’t understand why I had to be that child. It had to be my fault. Stupid. Wrong place, wrong time, tell no one, maybe one, but once I said it, I knew it happened. And once I knew it happened, I knew I was broken. Pieced together, over the years, I never hoped for male affection, though maybe I wanted their attention, see me, so I can see myself, remind me I’m here, remind me why I shielded myself from you for so long. 

 

Being broken became innate, it was the definition of who I was just as I was synonymous to the pieces that were before me. He couldn’t piece me back together, no one could. I had gotten so used to having shards breaking out of my skin that the idea that I could be sown shut, that I could be complete, horrified me. Maybe I wanted to remain empty. 

 

‘I want you to thrive.’ 

I wanted to thrive too. I wanted to feel something other than self hate, loathing, a yearning for a time after this life, a darkness that would consume me whole, where my demons and I would become one and I would no longer have to struggle to find myself because there was no self, only emptiness. I wanted to thrive. So I made a decision, get help, I made a decision, be better, the decision to eat right, live right, love right, be…I made the decision to simply be. And for a while I immersed myself in my new found self and tried to erase the fact that maybe my self was only a concoction of medication; clinical and empty, just as I once was. 

 

‘You are strong.’

God knows, everyday I tried to be. The days became harder and after a few months I begun feeling as I once did and I tried to die, like I had before. I took medications supposed to make me better, I took them in bulk to make me feel nothing. In that moment I learned selfishness, I didn’t care that I would be gone, if only they knew how tightly I had clung on to this life looking for the strength to pull myself up. But my hand slipped more and more each day as I remembered I was still that girl who would cry herself to sleep. 

 

‘I can’t say I’ll always be around, some days I’m selfless, some days I’m selfish.’

I was selfish and I hated that word, always, there was no finality to it, as if never ending. I couldn’t fault him for honesty, I wouldn’t ask him to stay and fight with someone whose weapons were as broken as she was. I didn’t have the urge to wake up as I once used to. I was returning to the shell of a person I used to be, but I wasn’t fortified, I threw my walls down when I decided to try happy. Maybe this was a crack in my path that I could seal with self acceptance. Maybe it was a hole I could fall into and remain there. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I would ever be.

 

He said he would tell me about his demons.

I was afraid of showing him mine, maybe he would run, maybe he would like them too much and stay, maybe I would become his project, the girl he thought he could save.

 

By m_Y Broken Mind.