The Irish House

tender headed

Dreams of sweet suicide run laps in my head. A replay of prescription pills, a dingy bath full of freezing water, and continuous blows to my soul.

Words can cut like a knife, but thoughts cut deeper.

One day, you're just having a bad day in class, then it turns so harshly, it becomes deadly.

Your family, friends, faith, desires, body, mind, and words, are all at jeopardy. 

At 18.

"You got here from an Irish Dancing video?"

"Yeah, but I started taking ballet when I was 8. I guess I was really good, because my teachers would always make me dance with higher level dancers, but I was much more younger than them!"

I laugh, but their eyes hold a hint of jealousy.

"Well, I guess that's why you're leading our troupe for the show." she kindly says.

"It might be more professional if someone more experienced than you led us, but whatever. Just remember, we are here to succeed, not cause drama."

-----------------------------------------------

I remember the faces of everyone who looked at me whenever I sat in the hair and makeup chair just before a show. My hair would be loosened, flying free in the air. My skin too dark to match the shades of foundation they carried. They were so awkward around me, it made my skin itch.

Your hair is so...big! I've never worked on hair like this, so bear with me.

Maybe it would be a better idea if you did it yourself.

The rules are, that your hair needs to slicked back. Can you at least braid it or...do you have one of those weaves?

For my Swan Lake performance, my skin was left looking pale and cakey, my hair covered in a metal smelling brown gel. They spent the longest time doing my hair and makeup, than any other dancer.

I even had to run to small stores and pick up makeup that would suit my face and body. It happened so often, I just started bringing my own things. I had to endure aching arms from cornrowing, the day of, or night before a show.

------------------------------------------------

"Stop moving your head, Nor! I need to make this part."

My foot hits the beige carpet in annoyance.

"Star, you're combing too hard!"

"How else am I supposed to soften this hair of yours! You keep effin' and blindin', but it's tangled. I'm almost done the cornrows, then we'll put the crochet on. Okay? I'm going to make you look so pretty."

I whine and fold my arms, as I sit between her legs on the floor.

I hate doing my hair, it's like lions biting your head and never stopping.

I'm due for a hair change, and I need to prepare myself for Adam's wedding in a few days. 

"How's it been taking care of my Dune? Are they a spitting image of me and their father? Intriguing, majestic, mysterious--"

I interrupt her, "Nope, he is weird."

She hits my arm, "Hey!"

"In a good way, damn. Dune doesn't speak to me, or anyone for that matter. Just to Joseph's youngest. But I like his Zen nature. Just staring and vibes.

"It's they/them."

"Shoot, I'm sorry. Ow. I didn't know you were raising them non-binary."

"Yeah, well I don't make it a big deal. It doesn't make them different from anyone else. Plus with this one coming," she pats her belly, "We will be doing the same thing. Mum and dad are going to give me hell for it again. Didn't speak to me or Josh for two weeks after Dune was born. They don't treat them the same as they do Joseph's children. It's disgusting."

I hum in response.

She asks me if I have spoken to mum and dad since our last meeting, but I have only made eye contact with them whenever we passed each other in the kitchen.

I want to say it's childish that they are ignoring me. How much real can I be to them? Do I need to be dead in order for them to understand? 

I didn't cause any problems that would concern them in Toronto, asides my hospitalizations. But, I was grown enough to somewhat deal with it.

Star continues to mat my hair, and I wince in pain.

Then walks in Joseph, eyes red, clothes wrinkled and disheveled. He reeks of alcohol, and slumps onto the sofa beside Star.

"Sheesh, your locked! Get your butt out and into the shower. Where's Cara and the kids?"

He runs his large hands on his face, lines starting to reveal it's place on his forehead. He keeps repeating, 'I'm so f*cked', over and over. Star has removed her hands from my hair and turns her attention to our brother.

"Everything is so sh*tty right now. My damn boss keeps getting on my nerves for the smallest things. For God's sake, the whole company is so knackering! I sent him an email saying I need time off. And I don't want to hear it from nobody that I asked for it. I need it, I need to--"

His eyes land on me. He doesn't say anything, but his mouth is parted like he's trying to.

This is the first time I have ever seen him so broken down. He always held himself like a stable, unemotional adult.

"I need to apologize," he says, "Ever since you came back, and everything came to light, I have been thinking. There was a stormy cloud over our heads when you came back, and nobody understood why. I didn't care for your business. But, my words have been...ugly towards you. So much has changed in the past few years, three kids, a new job. I have been on this planet longer than you, but your like, the light the world was missing. I didn't like the idea of you being so young, and leaving my sight. I was angry at you, because I wouldn't be able to protect you. And now that your depressed and all, I feel like I have failed."

He coughs, but his eyes wander around the room.

"I never understood all the mental health stuff, but...I'll be there. I want to see you on your feet, and guide you. I'll be your moon."

I stand up onto my feet and stare down at him. He's rarely expressive in his emotions, but it seems like the weight of life has been bludgeoning him. It makes me want to smile and jump up and down, like when I was a kid. His words are honest, and brutal. But I needed to hear him say it.

That's when Star says, "What are you morans staring at each other for? Sibling hug!"