𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 | ¹⁹⁹³

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑

I never really realised much of what was going on in the world around me, only that it was fast moving and my brain was lagging far behind.

I remember those long nights, lying in bed, thoughts racing at a rapid pace, worrying if the next day would be the same exhausting. And the day after that. And the day following that one.

It felt like a permanent fireworks explosion in my head, but not the fascinating, amazing kind you would imagine at New Year's Eve or the 4th of July. It was the type that drags you down mercilessly to your knees and makes you cry because you just don't figure out a way to end it.

I had no idea about labels like 'brain damage' or 'emotional dysfunction' back then.

But my parents did.

My father, a renowned neurosurgeon, the man who is known for awakening people's brains, was trying to explain to me that the section of my brain responsible for emotions was now somewhat... defective.

He took me through the medical terms, the scans, the patterns that shouldn't be there.

And I could see the pain in his eyes, the frustration every time I had an emotional outburst or crumpled into a corner, unable to calm my spiralling thoughts.

"You're not damaged, Missy,"

he said one night as we both gazed up at the stars on the balcony.

"You do things a little differently. And we'll find ways to help you use it to your best potential."

I knew his concern for me ran deeper than he'd ever confess. This robust, brilliant man, with the entire world of medicine at his feet, was feeling at the mercy of the challenge presented by his very own daughter.

On the most depressing days, I'd find him standing silently at the entrance to my room, watching as I hit my forehead repeatedly against the wall, desperate to shut down the never-ending, torturous fireworks inside my mind.

I'd notice the tears in his eyes. And he'd see the pain in mine. He'd rush over to me many times, hugging me, wrapping his arms around me, making sure I wouldn't hurt myself, mumbling comforting words that would sometimes reach me and sometimes wouldn't.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," I cried one day after another major mental breakdown.

"I wish I didn't have to be like this."

"I wish I was able to see inside your mind, Missy," he whispered during a hug.

"I want to help so desperately."

Even though he couldn't read my mind or fix my damaged brain, he would always be there for me. He was the centre of peace in the storm, the solid anchor in my riot of a world. There were times when he seemed to lose faith in himself, in his ability to help me.

But he 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 gave up.