Stitching these Wounds (Michael Jackson)

14. Alarmed

tw - mentions of suicidal ideology

[Imani]

•••

June 7th, 1976

The tranquility of my slumber was shattered by the roar of thunder that carried over into the next morning. My eyes flew open, my heart racing as another violent boom shook my bedroom window, the glass vibrating in protest, the entire house rattling. Trying my best to ignore the relentless assault of the rain against the roof of the house, my pillow acted as a pair of ear muffs in order for me to block out the noise. The gloominess of the day reflected the inner most part of my soul, as I had no desire to unwrap myself from the warmth of my bed. Though it was a school day, that didn't seem to phase me anymore, and I knew that the absences in my classes were accumulating, but I couldn't bring myself to muster up any form of productivity. Stagnation had reared its ugly head my way, and I was fully consumed with the lack of motivation.

The majority of my nights were spent going through all of the "what if"s in my head; all of the ways that the break up with Michael could've been avoided. I beat myself up mentally, the voices pounding against my skull, reminding me that I was the root cause of his current stressful situation—that I was far too much to handle. He'd finally had enough of me, and that's why he ended things. His absence was felt in every area of my life, and immense guilt threatened to ruin me more than it already had. A silent tear rolled down my cheek and soaked into my pillow, and my heart was filled with a burning hot vengeance at the monster from which all of my turmoil originated. Felix not only stripped me of my innocence, but his psychological damage put a permanent zipper over my mouth, causing me to lose the person that was able to tunnel through the darkness of my life and provide me with light—and despite all of the abuse and suffering he'd inflicted upon me, that was the worse thing he could've done.

Still, all I wanted to do was wallow in my bed, sink deep into the mattress and disappear. When I slept, my subconscious was at peace; my mind wasn't racing a million miles a second and I didn't have the weight of, simultaneously, feeling everything and nothing at all resting on my shoulders. Numb, yet feeling the pain of thousands of stabbing knives puncturing an already-opened wound. The rain became gentler, and the droplets created a nice rhythm that aided my way back to sleep. That was, soon, short-lived.

"Imani!" my mother barged in harshly, a hint of annoyance in her tone as she sighed deeply. "What are you still doing in bed? It's ten past eight!" She flipped the light switch on, temporarily blinding me. "It's Monday, you gotta get up."

I groaned as I pulled the covers over my face. "But I'm tired," I whined like a young child. "Please don't make me, Mom."

I could hear the clicking of my mother's high-heel shoes that mimicked the pitter-patter of the rain against our home. She made her way to the end of my bed, and she yanked the blanket off of my body, exposing me to the chilled air, which caused goosebumps to rise on my skin. "Enough, Imani," she said firmly. "You're always tired. I'm done with that excuse." A deep sense of shame violated my being, and I felt worthless. "You have too many absences already. At this rate, you aren't gonna graduate."

I wasn't able to deny any of what my mother was saying, because was she right—and that's what hurt me to my core. I was choosing to wallow in my own self-loathing and pity, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't pick myself up out of this funk. As the days went on, I dug myself deeper and deeper into the dark depths of misery. The light at the end of the tunnel wasn't visible, and quite frankly, waking up every day and going through the same, relentless cycle of abuse and self-hatred was taking away my will to live. It seemed easier to end it all rather than plastering on a fake smile to hide my inner demons. So, in that moment, I couldn't hold anything in any longer, and as I sat up slowly and swung my legs over my bed, I broke down sobbing.