Unraveled

4.

Onika's POV

I woke up to the soft hum of Lauren's laptop, the glow of the screen spilling light into the small room we shared. Sunlight streamed through the window, a gentle reminder that another day awaited. I rubbed my eyes and pushed the tangled hair from my face, the familiar weight of my mind pressing down on me.

Living with Lauren had its comforts; she was my rock, especially now that she was in college, balancing her courses with grace. But some days, it felt suffocating, like the air itself was a heavy quilt, wrapping around me too tightly. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the remnants of my dreams, which often felt more like nightmares.

It wasn't easy being an intersex girl in a world that demanded clarity—black and white, male or female. It felt like I was always standing on the edge of a cliff, never quite knowing if I'd be pushed or if I'd jump myself. My bipolar disorder and schizophrenia added another layer of complexity, twisting my thoughts into knots that I struggled to untangle. Some days, I felt like I was peering into a kaleidoscope of emotions, everything too vivid and overwhelming. Other days, I felt like I was stuck in a fog, my mind trapped in a silence that screamed.

Back in school, the bullying was relentless. They called me names that burned like acid, insults that echoed in my head long after the laughter faded. I went through months of depression, lost in a haze of tears and solitude. It was painting that saved me, the colors swirling and blending, a sanctuary where I could express the chaos inside me. Each brush stroke felt like a release, a way to channel the pain into something beautiful. I started selling my art, but I kept my identity hidden. The fear of being discovered loomed like a dark cloud—what if they found out about my condition? What if the people who appreciated my work turned away, disgusted by the truth of who I was?

Church was a distant memory, a place I never wanted to revisit after that incident when I was ten. Mom thought it would be good for us, a way to connect with the community. I remember the swings, the feeling of pure joy as I soared higher, laughing with a girl I didn't know. Then the laughter turned sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. The girls from school had come, their words filled with venom, labeling me a freak in front of everyone. I felt the world tilt, the laughter around me fading as I pulled my pants down in a moment of childlike innocence, only for it to turn into a nightmare.

When the other girl ran inside, I could almost feel the weight of their stares. It was like I was on display, my 'condition' exposed for all to see. I yanked my pants up, heart racing, and ran away, tears streaming down my face. In that moment, I believed God had made a mistake. I was a freak, unloved and unlovable.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the present. Lauren was still busy with her studies, and the world outside was bustling, but here in our little apartment, I had my art. I had my voice, even if it was whispered in the shadows. I picked up my paintbrush, ready to transform the chaos of my mind into something vibrant, something that could bridge the gap between who I was and who I wanted to be.

I dipped the brush into a swirl of deep blue, watching the color pool and mix with the lighter hues. As I painted, my thoughts drifted back to my dad. It had been years since that night—when everything shattered in an instant. I was sixteen, full of teenage rebellion, dreaming of a future that suddenly felt like a cruel joke.

He was driving home from work, probably just thinking about the barbecue we had planned for that weekend. I remember how excited he was, how he promised to teach me how to grill the perfect steak. But he never made it home. A drunk driver, a hit and run, took him away in the blink of an eye. It felt like the ground had been ripped from under me, leaving me suspended in a void of grief and confusion.