It was only one week ago.
I don't want to remember it, because every time I recount the exact order of events, the flashbacks come, and I cannot grasp reality. I have to count . . . move my fingers, and breathe. It's a lot harder than you might think. I don't think I can handle giving another police statement.
People kept telling me it wasn't my fault, but I chose to go outside that night, didn't I?
The crappy thing is I predicted the whole thing. I wrote about it happening to me in my novel––I predicted every single feeling I would feel if it ever happened, every sensation, every anxiety, every scar it inflicted on my mind. Luckily, I don't think the wounds on my body will scar. The bruises are passing their ugly yellowing phase, and the cuts from the glass are fainting to pink.
I predicted the first trauma, too. It wasn't exact, of course. But I remember having dreams of their deaths.
The most prominent one in my memory is when one of my brother's got shot in the street, and I cried next to his bleeding shoulder as I called out for help and my dad had a gun in his hand, then shot himself. It didn't exactly happen this way, but it doesn't change what really matters: they're both dead.
I cannot recall ever dreaming of my mother's death, which I take some comfort in, but I don't get my hopes up. Not anymore.
I know this is a dark post, and maybe you don't want to read anymore because you don't want to be sad, but sometimes. . . I think we need to feel the gut-wrenching pain in order to feel love again. I repressed the first trauma the moment I heard the news; I went to school right away, wanting to forget that three of the five bedrooms were now empty, only full of echoes and the dust of their lives. I tried to do the same thing again, but my friends and family, without question, grasped onto my arms and are pulling me out of the black hole. If anything good came out of this, it's the reminder that I have so many people in my life willing to hold onto me so I do not fall.
But that doesn't stop me from questioning why bad things keep happening. I'm trying to be a good person. I'm trying. But I must not be doing such a great job, because shitty things just keep happening. So what's the point of being good when it's so damn difficult and you get nothing out of it?
I still feel safer with the hat on, so the pain feels more hidden. To the world, maybe I'm just having a bad hair day. I've never liked asking people for help, even if I know they'd do it in a heartbeat. Asking for help always makes me feel weak and vulnerable, like I am incapable of the simple task of taking care of myself. I hate the fact that I cannot want to walk out alone at dark anymore because fear envelops my mind and chokes my senses, tricking me into thinking that I'm in constant danger when it's dark.
I don't want pity, either. Someone once told me that pity can be people's way of showing that they care, but pity just makes me feel weak all over again. Like I'm a victim; like I'm some helpless little kitten that got beat and tossed onto a wet street. But I guess that's just my pride speaking.
I thought that one trauma was enough for a lifetime, and that nothing as bad as that could ever happen to me again; I'd already served my time of suffering and I was onto the healing. This wasn't as bad as that loss, I guess, but still, it all feels like it's happening again. It's the same process, only I'm nineteen––six years older, and I didn't lose anyone, thank god. Although I may have lost a part of myself. I've definitely lost chunks of hope that I clung onto before with the expectations that life was finally a roller coaster that could only go up. Well, I'm sorry, but Augustus Waters was wrong. Life is a roller coaster, alright, but it goes up down around side to side and flings you wherever it wants.
We cannot control what happens to us, but we can control what it does to us.
I really considered giving up for a brief moment. I considered just quitting. Quitting school, quitting writing, music, art––everything. I would just sit and breathe, and nothing would ever happen then. But then my best friends would bother me (in a good way). They'd talk to me without expecting a reply back. They'd offer to walk with me. One even said they'd take a plane right over if I really needed that. My best best friend's father came to the hospital for me when my mom couldn't right away. They let me sob into their shoulders as the pain struck me over and over again. Sometimes I still cannot believe that such good can exist in a world that caused the pain in the first place. I guess that's why I don't trust goodness until it proves itself to me. I don't trust that people will not run away until they prove that they will always be in my life, and I think it's times like these that remind anyone that this love exists. It's still alive, and it's powerful.
That's the point. That's the reason why we should choose to be good; to love.
"You're alive," they say. Physically, this is true. I am alive. But I have to live––that's an action. There's a difference between the act of living and being alive.
It's only been a week. It feels like a lifetime. But if there's anything you're going to get from this depressing confession of the chaos warping my mind, get this: love never destroys you, it heals you from the darkness that tries to poison us.