Different colored minds

It's too loud

PAMELA POV

Im sitting at the dinner table, my fork pressed into a strip of broccoli.
"So, how was your guys' day at school?" My dad Asks.
"Fine," my brother grunts, a purple bruise blossoming on his cheek.
"Where did you get that bruise?" My dad pipes in.
"Fell over," he pokes a pea.
"You're not being bullied, right?" My mom insists.
"Mom, im fine. Now will you leave me alone," his fork scrapes the plate as the pea pops out from under it. A silence passes around the table.
"If you need help, we're just a phone call away," my dad decides, shoving another bight of meat into his mouth.
"We're always here to help," my mom reaches towards his hand but he flinched away. I keep shoveling food in my mouth as fast as I can. It can't stop how fast my thoughts are pinging around the walls of my brain. If you were really there for either of us why do you talk to us like garbage? If you really cared about us, why would you try and stop us from defending ourselves against you two. You're not perfect, nor do you take your own advice. You bicker and complain about each other and your lot in life and insist we do things differently than we are and then turn around to tell us we can trust you. You won't hurt us. You're on our side. You're not like every other bully that's done this before. You're different.
"How was school?" My dad turns to me.
"Good." I state.
"What happened today?" My mom adds.
"I worked on math. I've been trying to help some others during class too," I smile. It's been helping me understand the concepts a lot better and I feel almost like I have friends.
"As long as it's not getting in the way of your studies," my dad chips in. I pause. "People will use you. You need to focus on school for yourself," he begins. "If you're helping everyone else succeed you aren't helping yourself..." I try and tune out his words by thinking over them. Sometimes I pray over them. Any way for them not to sink in and make me isolate myself further than I do already. For once something good is happening. And this is all he has to say. Not how is that going. Not how are you doing. I just wanted someone to listen to what's happening in my life. I know he's trying. I know she's trying. But it's not enough. There's a pause. My dad must be done talking.
"Of course dad," I state, quickly trying to stop him before he can hurt me. I take a deep breath. He's just trying to help me out but it's not helping.

I stab a potato.

Maybe if he talked about this every once in a while but it isn't. He does it all the time. It feels like he only wants to hear what's going on in my life if it means I'll do what HE wants me to do with his feedback. He doesn't trust me. And he always has ten ways I could have done it better. I have to act like my judgement is trustworthy and sound in front of him because he questions everything. It's like living under a microscope. If only I could just tell him how fake this all feels. But it can't really matter. It's such a small thing to get worked up about. At least I know that's what he's going to say if I bring any of this up. It'll be an excuse. He'll say I just need to get thicker skin. I need to get tougher. I need to get stronger. I need to change. It's best to just not talk at all—
"Hey mom, hey dad, I have some homework to finish, can I be excused?" My father looks at my mother.
"Sure hun," he says. My mom smiles.

I have to get away. Soon I can hear them. Through the thin walls and ceilings. My brother's voice, my dad's and my mom's.
I open the window and let the cold air hit my face. I can hear birds in the distance. Wind rustling through the trees. It sounds like the jungle did, even if the birds are different. It seers my heart every time my mind wanders there. I just want to go back. It's not like it would be any better. In fact I know it wouldn't be any better. It would probably be worse. But in my eyes it's where I'm meant to be. It's kind of odd to think about now; That I really grew up in such a place. A place I can never get back to under the same circumstances. I'm never going to be that young again. I'll never see the world through my younger self's eyes. There won't be the same people there, either. I'd be alone. But aren't I alone already?

My father's voice is getting louder downstairs. My fists clench. Please don't yell. Please don't yell. I hear my mom now. And then there are the footsteps of my brother coming up the stairs. I roll off of my bed and huddle in the corner, iPad in hand. Smooshed against the corner I unlock the iPad. Then I jam my finger on the iPad screen to where the YouTube image is. My thumbs furiously type in __freettimekiller__ and jam headphones in my ears. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear it. The voices are getting louder. I turn up the volume.
It feels like hours. The voices I'm ignoring In and out of the audio Jack.

It's always been like this. Yelling. Loud. Anger. It's so loud it throbs in my eardrums. The bitterness in my brother. The anger in my father. And the desperation of my mother. The video chugs on, my eyes watching as shapes and sceneries move past the screen.

"Pamela, it's your turn to do the dishes," I hear my dad call from down the stairs. My shoulders tense as I shove the ipad under my bed and open the door. My brother is rushing up the stairs as I get to the first step. I freeze as he bumps past me and steams into his room. I can hear him hitting the wall in rhythm to my feet hitting each step. I take a deep breath as my dad now pelts up the stairs. I can already hear him yelling about how my brother is ruining the wall. All the ways my brother needs to be better. Be a stronger man. I can hear it all the way in the kitchen. My mom stands at the oven stacking cooking utensils, shaking.

I give her a long and hard hug.

One day it has to get better.

And maybe that's what this all boils down to. Me telling myself it will get better if I just put my hands over my ears and say it'll go away. Say I don't have to hurt about this. I can ignore this and it will go away. But It never goes away. The grief never goes away. I'm trapped in a relentless cycle of accumulated words and actions of others. That and my unending need for peace. For stability. For something that will make me feel less—

Alone.

When I left the jungle, I left a piece of myself I will never get back. Even if I go back it will never be what it was then. And even then, I was always sad. My dad would yell. My mom would say encouraging things. My brother would fight. And I would run—

I wish I could stand up for those I love. I wish I could stand up for something I love. I wish I wasn't so afraid of the consequences of standing up. Afraid of not having the words to say back. Afraid that I will only think of the words to say months later while sitting in the bathtub. I'm too slow. I can't process information fast enough for people to listen. I'm the perfect candidate to bully. The kid who can't fight back. So I might as well be the kid who won't fight back.

I lay down on my bed and look up at the craggily ceiling. This is why I hate getting stuck inside my head. My train of thought always boils down to the rock bottom moments in my life. The things I don't want to think about. Like the things I can't change. There has to be a way out. I just don't know what it is.

I feel like eventually I'll flip some magic switch that makes me a normal human. But I don't want to be a normal human. I don't know what I want. And it doesn't even matter what I want because most likely, it can't come true. If I can't even process what I'm feeling until months later, what's the point in thinking I can tell anyone what I want. I have to keep what I want hidden. I have to be able to do this on my own. I have to make it all on my own. I have to be okay being

Alone—.

My eyes are filling with tears. There has to be a way out of my head. Someway I'm not alone by the end of the equation. Some way I don't have to do this all by myself.