The archive of the forgotten

Atlas and little Atlas

I look at the water in the bath and try my best not to fall asleep. I close my eyes, lying to myself  I won't fall asleep. Andrew knocks on the door. "You've been in there for a little too long, I am worried Atlas." I chuckle. "Come in." I say "What are you up to?" He asks while sitting down on a  stool. "I am drowning myself." I say with a smirk. He smiles, "No, all joking aside, I was planning to wash my hair but..." Before I can say anything else he puts some shampoo in his hands and starts washing my hair. "Thank you." I whisper. He smiles, "I like your hair." "I like it too." He chuckles. "That's the one thing you are not modest about right?" I nod.

He rinses out my hair and puts it up. "thank you" I say, his eyes stray to my back. I look at him and put my hair over my back again. "Will you ever tell me about them?" I smile and shake my head. "You don't need to know anything about them." I say as I rest my chin on my knees. "Atlas, I have never seen scars like this." I dig my nails in my hands and bite my lip. "Because everyone who has them hides them." "Why do you still have that place in your heart where I am not allowed." I smile bittersweetly. "Because it is the only part of my heart that I can't heal. It is rotten, it is dead. I don't want to know it. Why should you know it?" "Because I care about every part of you" He says with a smile. I shrug. "Well I don't"

I close my eyes I shiver in the wind while I am smoking a cigarette. My hair is still wet, my mum used to forbid me to go outside with wet hair. I still don't go out in public with wet hair but I do simply go into the garden. I look at the sky, I envy it's powdered orange and bright blue, it is so beautiful. I wish I could steal it and keep it in a box forever, so I can give it to the people who are most important to me. I smile, the world is beautiful I should write something. I remember that my therapist said some people feel better when they write a letter to their younger self.

I sit down and look at the blank page in my typewriter. I take a deep breath and begin to write.

Dear younger Atlas,

I wish I could say that you are doing better and you know what? I will say it. You are doing better, but I will also confess that I am lying. You are not doing better, as a matter of fact you have lost the tiny bit of innocence you still had and we both know we tend to say that we are doing alright. Or that there are people in the world suffering more. And although that is very true we should realise that we cannot imagine that suffering, which means that the way we suffer feels bad for us. I envy you little atlas, you were so funny, so good in masking your utter despair, you were brave. We've given up. I personally think we won't live past 30, well, we almost hit the 21 mark, it might be older than I have ever thought. I am just not sure whether I should be happy or absolutely terrified of my own preservance, sometimes I wish I would have died before I loved people. It would have been easy.

You haven't gotten better Atlas, what they told you about your seizures wasn't true and your migraine has only gotten worse. You are willingly starving yourself even if you try not to. You hate yourself, you do reckless things in the hopes you'll hurt yourself enough to forget about your other pain. You also do it because you hope you can die because you were "reckless" and don't have to admit you want to die again.

I am beginning to realise that this letter will only scare you. So maybe I am doing this excercise wrong, well... I am definitely doing it wrong. But little Atlas, savour your youth. Remember the bright skies, the friends you've met, the jokes you'd make, the things your mum taught you. I admire your joy, keep smiling for as long as possible, be kind to everyone like your mum taught you and I promise, you will see your brother again. Tell yourself that you love yourself, even if you are lying. Be forgiving to yourself, don't lose hope. At least not yet. Well little Atlas, that is my  feeble attempt to be inspiring. I hope you don't hate me for it. Well, you hate me nonetheless.

Regards,

Atlas

I close my eyes, how I hate myself.

Than I feel it again. I forgot what it was like, the genuine need to escape. I want to go but this time I don't want to slit my wrists, I want to go, somewhere unobtainable, somewhere unknown, somewhere no one knows how miserable I am. Somewhere where I can be as sad as my heart desires in the evening and smile and pretend to be happy in the morning. I want to run away. I want to go. I remember the times I ran, so many times, to return to another house that was exactely the same. It was an endless cycle of hopelessness. the lack of trust they had that I would return was telling for the way they view me. Damaged, but how could I deny such a simple fact? I simply cant. And still, I don't need reminders of everyone I have broken, I have used, I have taken for granted, I have dragged into this hole. I need to leave. But how can I when I love everything and everyone here. How could I leave my home. Why do I have this stupid feeling?