Metanoia

Chapter 1: The Vein

• Ivory •

Everyone has a breaking point. It doesn't matter what, when or how that breaking point comes about, everyone has one. Some people may reach their breaking point through a series of unfortunate events, while others may find it in a single shattering moment. Believe it or not, most people around you are already at, or past, that point. They wave on by, smiling wide, day after day, after day. You would never suspect a thing more or less hiding behind those fleeting grins. To survive in this world, you must be a great pretender. You must build walls that look like that of strength and perseverance, to conceal the ugly disease that is yourself, that is your breaking point. I am that disease. And yet, beneath the facade of strength and resilience, I continue to exist, silently withering and eating away at everything within me. This mirror that I peer into slaps me in the face with the painful realization that my reflection will only show a presence of a monster that was, and always has been, me. Suddenly, another figure is behind me, short in stature, but familiar.

I don't have enough time to realize that it is my sister before I jump up, startled, "Raina! do you really have to barge into every room without knocking?" I sigh, relieved that it is only her. Raina cheers, and she is full of glee that only a child like her could hold. She is what I would consider my best friend, and my only friend. She calms down and turns to the door, pointing out of it, "Are you ready yet? Mom's waiting with the camera!" She is almost half-scolding me. I turn back to the mirror, and brush my hair back into place, trying not to focus my eyes on my own entity. "I'm going to miss you guys, you know? Time really does leave us behind." It's sappy, cheesy moments such as these that get me to say the most vomit-inducing, cliche lines that everyone hears from everyone, over and over. For some, hearing those things may provoke the sense that every human on Earth is just a copy of each other, broken records that were never recalled and instead mass-produced. Although we become repetitive and exhausting, there is no real point in wasting your time attempting to argue or deny, that sometimes, those cliches are truer than you would like to admit. I struggle to lift out of my seat, and I put on all of my braces. First goes the ankles, second goes the knees, third the shoulders and back. It is quite baffling at times to remember that I am only just barely held in place by a couple of industrial paddings wrapped around my joints. Preventing injury is a drag, I sometimes wonder why I bother in the first place if it will just happen no matter what I do. I make my way to my mother, her camera fired up and FaceBook open, ready to show the world her very own facade.

I never smile in photos, just a small stretch of my lips upwards usually satisfies her in this process. I have never liked being photographed or posted, but never had a choice. Before I know it, I am on the road, passing down by the middle school I used to attend, memories that I always opt to forget about. I feel discomfort, no fond emotions are experienced from the sight of it. I just try and focus on the construction ridden roads of the suburbs I had no other choice than to call "home". Today is the day that I move into my new dorm, the day before my first day at University. I never expected to be accepted into my dream school, and I also wasn't. My mother still won't stop gawking on about that rejection letter, dangling it over my head like it is the only way I could ever be successful or become something useful. To her, it's always something, never someone. I feel my body on fire as I approach my new residence, such a long ride only felt like a few minutes.

Time is a mystery to me. We watch hands on a clock to tell us the hour and minute, and we follow it without question. We glance at our screens that display aesthetically pleasing dates to notify us if it is a Tuesday, or a Saturday, or June or February. I guess everyone else is very good at seeking in this forced game of hide and seek between mortality and time. I have never had great eye-sight anyway.

As I step out of the car and take in the sight of my new housing, I can't shake off the growing anxiety that has settled within my chest. I have never been good at new situations, I hate suddenly changes in routine. I feel ripped out of my shell, like a poached tortoise. I become increasingly curious as to who my roommate will be, what they may be like. But, there is a deeper fear that has me pre-occupied with severe anticipation. This fear encompasses the unknown, the uncertainty of whether my roommate will be someone I can connect with, someone who would be willing to learn about me and my illnesses. 'What if they see all my pill bottles , scattered on the nightstand and think I'm disorganized, or a junky?' Most of my family are junkies. I swallow my fears for now, and knock on the door, but no one answers. I have a copy of the key sent to me, it's digital, so I pull out my phone and check my e-mails. I unlock the door and step inside, and this dorm is awfully clean, and very spacious. It looks like my roommate has not arrived yet at all, the more that I see inside the housing. No one has been here yet. I make my way in towards the kitchen and notice that all the cabinets are empty.

There are no plates, glasses, or even utensils. Suddenly, I feel my pocket vibrate violently. A phone call from the Office of Admissions flashes back at me. It must be about my roommate. "Hello?" I answer briefly, met by the voice of an older woman on the other line. "Hello, this is Marsha from the Office of Admissions of Bransfort University. I am calling to speak to Miss Ivory Lentons?" She sounded like what I imagine depression and being a slave to the grind personified would sound of, noting that she sounds like that of a smoker. "This is she." I confirm. "Miss Lentons," Marsha replied, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "We have received some troubling news regarding your roommate's attendance, we have marked him as delayed arrival." And then she hung up. "Well, that was awfully brief..." and I look to the clock on the wall, it is seven o'clock at night. I guess I just have extra time to move in and organize before my roommate gets here. I brace myself for some heavy lifting and walk towards the door and out to my car to begin moving things inside . . .