Chapter 2
Looking back, my childhood was more of a nightmare than a happy memory, A Nightmare caused by not monsters but relentless pain and struggles that seemed to shadow every moment of my life. There seem to never be day a of peace, no matter how much I wished for one, it never came. My mother, though she tried in her own flawed way, was far from the nurturing figure. Her attempts at parenting were often marred by a harshness that was unbeknownst to her. she simply did what she presumed was right, She always tried her hardest to nurture but fails. To me, she was nothing but a distant figure, very similar to my unknown father, A memory easily forgotten, and a provider at worst. Sometimes, she tries and succeeds in showing some glimmer of care; while other times, she fails woefully, her anger and frustration spilling over into our lives like a storm that never ceased. I understand it was due to her being young and inexperienced in parenting but her abusive nature was something she was blind to, although it became painfully familiar to me. Painful memories of me screaming for her resurface, only to find my voice trapped within me like i was screaming into a pillow, silenced, suffocated, unheard. She ruled with an iron fist and clouded mind, shaping me in ways that led only to the further destruction of my fragile mind and young soul.
I remember the first time I tried to escape this nightmarish life by introducing the separation between my body and soul. I was just eight years old, a child already worn down by the weight of the world which was heavy to bear. This happened after I consolidated a suitable amount of courage needed for a confrontation with my mother, Trying to educate her about the pain she inflicts, hoping we might come to a peaceful understanding but I was foolish.
"When have I ever abused you?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief, shocked by the strange question.
"Every time I do something wrong," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, sadness and exhaustion evident in my eyes.
"That isn't abuse; it's called discipline," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive.
"But"
"There are no buts. Now leave before I give you something to cry about," she snapped, her words hit me like a whip.
I understood her anger at that moment, though I don't think she understood it herself as she was too young, too inexperienced as a mother, which is understandable. Yet, even with my level of understanding, my fragile mind could no longer bear the pain it attracts. I remember the day so clearly "July 8th, 2013" A date seared into my young memory. It was your typical happy and simple morning; my mother left for work as early as possible and my sister went off to school, I was left alone, neglected as usual. My plan was quite simple: fake an illness and stay home but it seems this wasn't needed. My mother, known to be neglectful, did not question my act. My sister, concerned, requested to stay home and care for me, but I immediately declined insisting for her to leave for school, debating on how it wouldn't be wise for both of us to be absent without any prior notice, she agreed and left.
Once the house was empty, I commenced with the plan. Quickly retrieving the rope I had hidden away, the one I had been too afraid to use until that day. I began practicing the soul separation knot, my hands trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. It took longer than I would have expected; my mind wandering with thoughts of what my death would mean to those around me. Would they be sad? Would they finally understand the depth of my pain? Would my sister cry, or would she be relieved? Would my absence bring them peace, or would it shatter what little was left of their lives? or would life be much easier for them.
These thoughts swirled around in my little mind but i was determined to follow through with my plan. After what felt like hours, I perfected the knot needed for my release, my heart pounding in my chest as I grabbed a stool and positioned myself under the low-hanging ceiling fan in our living room which was the only one my small frame could reach. I didn't think about the distance or the length of the rope and focused only on the end I sought after. On my tiptoe, I reached, secured the rope around the fan, and then wrapped it around my fragile neck, creating a noose for my body, and a chain for my soul.
With one final push and a steeled heart, I kicked the stool away. The ground seemed to rise beneath me, and the air around me became thin and faint. My body, once filled with life and hope, now thrashed desperately for breath. Panic set in as my lungs as it screamed for air, but my mind remained resolute and steeled, I didn't want to be saved. But then, as my soul began to slip away, something went wrong. The rope that took hours to perfect loosened, and suddenly, air flooded back into my lungs, bringing nothing but warmth of life that I had tried so hard to escape.
The relief was short-lived. In my fall, the stool had knocked against the table creating a magnetic pull between my body and the table, and as my body collapsed, my head collided with the corner of the table. Pain exploded and corroded my skull, the world around me went dark. I had failed, I failed to escape the suffering, failed to end the nightmare that had become my life. I lost consciousness, my warm body went cold and still, my mind adrift in a sea of guilt and disappointment. I couldn't move anything, not even a finger, I layed there cold, the thoughts that had plagued me before returned with vengeance. How would my mother react when she finds me on the floor like this? Would she be disappointed in my failure, or relieved that I hadn't succeeded? Would my sister cry for me, or would she be glad I was still here? And what about my father? Would he finally care, finally step into my life, or would he remain absent, even after knowing his young son had tried to take his own life?
These questions tormented me as I layed there still, cold and lifeless, unable to move, unable to escape the pain in my head and the ache in my void like heart. Then I felt it: the warm rush of a liquid, it wasn't water. It was blood.
"I'm bleeding," I whispered softly,
A strange sense of relief washed over my body. This meant my freedom was within my reach, I did not fail, I am very close to the escape I had longed for. the warm blood trickled down my head, over my cheeks, and the stark contrast to the cold, hard floor beneath me. But with the blood came another wave of unbearable pain, so intense but I couldn't scream. My consciousness began to drift away again, fleeing the scene like a coward, leaving my body, soul and mind behind.
But as I felt myself drifting away, I noticed something else happening, something unexpected. Tears, They danced and mixed with the blood on my cheeks creating a yin and yang motion, a bitter reminder of the life I was about to leave behind. I was crying. Was it due the pain, or was it due to the realization that I was about to depart with nothing but guilt and sadness? I was unsure of the reason. All I knew was that I was tired, tired of this thing we call life, tired of the never ending pain, tired of the struggle, tired of living a life that felt more like a curse than a blessing. I wanted to live, but I didn't know how to.
As my consciousness finally fled, I was left with nothing but an empty shell belonging to a body and an unwanted damaged soul. The darkness consumed me, and for a brief moment, there was peace, the feeling of the endless abyss of nothingness, a silence that I had always longed for, a stillness that I had never known. But even in that darkness, the unbearable pain remained, kept reminder of the life I couldn't escape, no matter how hard I tried, I will always attract pain and suffering. And in that moment, I realized that my battle was far from over. I was still here, still trapped in a world that had a goal, one goal "to break me". But as long as I was alive, I would keep fighting, no matter how much it hurt. Because somewhere, deep down, a part of me still wanted to live.