Remember Forever

That Christmas was one I will remember forever. Santa didn’t leave anything under my tree. We didn’t sing carols with our loved ones. I didn’t enjoy the wonderful Christmas feast before me, and there was no figgy pudding. I wasn’t alone, but I felt like I was. I felt an overwhelming darkness seeping into my skin. My own hell was warm enough to melt the freshly fallen snow. I tried to be festive. I put on my mask, the one with the plastic smile. I oozed fake joy and happiness, it filled the room. I was burning on the inside, but I stayed cool as ice. My thoughts held my tongue still. 

Not a single damning word left my lips until I felt safe. Until I was somewhere I knew I wouldn’t be judged. With the car pulled over so I could let my words flow free, on the side of the road. I could have been in a room with ten thousand people and I would have been alone. I cried out in pain as my tears broke free. I thanked him for being there, for holding me, for letting my irrationalities take hold of both of us momentarily. He knew me well. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t understood me, I’d have been a broken mess.

Holidays never sat well with me. I never understood them, and they never understood me. I had contemplated many a time about my departure. That Christmas was no different. He knew. I was the type that felt like I had nothing to live for, that wanted to cut out early. He knew that that day was worse than every other. He held me, reassured me it was ok. It turned out I was going to be after all. So he held me and I slept. Soundly, safely.

Christmas was over and I was still there. I had made it through the darkness in my head. Safe and sound. My own Christmas miracle perhaps. My phone rang and I answered it. My world cracked. In the midst of my own depression I forgot about my mother. I thought she was ok, she seemed fine three days before. But I suppose I seemed fine to her as well. The disbelief of the news dropped me to the floor. Drowning in my own tears, I called out for her. She was gone. Those same demons poking fun of me the day before had been poking fun at my mother as well. I should have known. We were more alike than I knew. Similar in feelings, and thoughts. My demons had been beaten, but that day she lost her battle.

She lost and I lost, we all lost to her demons. I couldn’t save her, I couldn’t even save me. It hurt. It still hurts. Pieces of me died with her. They lie beside her, in her box made out of wood. I oft wonder if they have rotted away as she does. I try and hold on to her smile in my heart. Sometimes it’s hard. Other times I think she reminds me. There are many things I have forgotten in my few years that I wish I could have held onto longer. The good memories are scarce. But the memory of that Christmas is strong. It is bittersweet. I won and lost all at once. Part of me died that day, but the rest lives on. She lives on, metaphorically. Forever is such a long time, and I still have so many years left to go, but I will never forget. I will never forget those feelings, the demons, the fight. The win, the loss, the life I still have.

That Christmas was the one I will remember forever. I must never forget…

Dedicated to my mother whose demons proved to be too much for her. She lives in my heart, and I miss her.

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I Am A Statistic

 

 

  • An estimated 60 percent of teen girls’ first pregnancies are preceded by experiences of molestation, rape, or attempted rape. In one study, between 30 and 44 percent of teen mothers were victims of rape or attempted rape. Up to 20 percent of girls become pregnant as the direct result of rape.  Source
  • In the United States, one of every ten births involves a teen mother.    Source
  • The children of addicts are 8 times more likely to develop an addiction.  Source
  • Losing a parent to suicide makes children more likely to die by suicide themselves and increases their risk of developing a range of major psychiatric disorders, according to a study led by Johns Hopkins Children’s Center that is believed to be the largest one to date on the subject.  Source
  • On average, a woman will leave an abusive relationship seven times before she leaves for good.  Source

 

I am a statistic.

I can be categorized.

These things have made me what I am.

Today…

I am broken,

Shattered even.

I am missing pieces of myself.

I have lost control a time or two,

Maybe more times than that.

I have pushed away anything

Everything

That looked promising

That was good for me.

Out of fear,

Out of love.

I have been consumed

By my demons.

I have given up

More times than I can count.

I have Lied,

Cried,

Tried to move further down the road.

Sabotaged myself

Over and over again.

Picked myself up

After falling.

Dried myself off

After drowning.

Took a new breath

After suffocating myself.

I am a statistic.

My chances of making it past my past were slim.

Memories of it still haunt me.

Taunt me.

Fuck with my head.

BUT…

I am resilient.

I am stronger than I thought I was.

I am still here,

When statistics said I could’ve been dead.

I still live.

I still try to love.

I am holding onto hope

And wishes that may never come true.

I will still wish

And hope

And dream.

If dreaming is all that I have.

I am still lost,

But I am searching.

And someday,

When I find the right path,

I will find my way.

I am a statistic,

That made it to see another day…

 

Tug of war

I have grown tired of playing
This backwards game of tug of war
Somehow no matter who pulls the hardest
No matter who pulls the least
I always land flat on my ass
Wiping dirt from my knees
I can never keep them clean
This constant game that we play
I push
You pull
It’s all in good fun
You are my trigger
I am your gun
I pull
You run
My hand is a loser
You seem to have won

Little Reminders

Yesterday I cut my hair, yes I know big deal.  Well I just used a razor comb and didn’t have any kind of plan set out, I just kind of went with the flow.  Looks pretty decent btw.  Well today I woke up all disheveled and went to brush my hair, glanced in the mirror and was blown away at how my hair looked.  As untidy as it was, the thing that hit me the most was how much it looked just like the haircut my mother had for practically all of my life.  Of course memories of her hit me like a rock to the face.  I miss her, she left too soon.  My mother was only 44 when her depression got to be too much for her to cope with.  She took her own life the day after christmas back in 2008.  She has been gone for many years now, but I think she’s still here with me.  She wasn’t the perfect mother and that’s ok, because I am not either.  I loved her regardless.  Depression can be a really difficult thing to overcome for some people, I have had my own battles with it.  I am happy to say that I have come out on the winning side, unfortunately not everyone does.  As angry as we may be that a loved one makes the decision to take their own life, we need to realize that they have their reasons.  I know and understand why my mother is gone.  We all deal with something painful in our lives.  Coping with some pain can be a bitch, and really takes a toll on a person, which is what happened with my mother.  I hope she is in a better place, wherever that may be, with people that she has loved and lost.  I know that her pain and suffering is over, and that is enough of an answer for me as to why she did it.  She loved me from the minute I was born, and I will love her until my last breath has been expelled, maybe longer, I don’t know.  All I know is she has missed out on so much, and maybe someday, somehow, I will be able to fill her in on it all.

 

My mother the day my oldest son was born.