[tw: mentions of ptsd, suicide, depression, anxiety, mental illness stigma, panic, death, war, etc]
— calum [1 1/2 years ago]
i ran up the steps of my childhood home, pressing my sweaty palms on my ears. the loud yelling from the kitchen that i first learned to make cookies in, still echoed in my ears, no matter how hard i tried to squeeze the sounds out.
i started to second guess my decision to drop out. i just couldn't take it anymore. school has done nothing for me. but, of course, even this blind choice has raised all sorts of hell and anger our of my mother. this is the first she's cared about me in a while. although i wouldn't say she didn't care before, but controlling every aspect of my life since birth, left me with a missing identity.
what am i doing?
i slammed my door in a panic, and ran into my tiny closet. which sounds very extremely childish and almost comical, but considering my mental state, my pride jumped ship.
i brought my legs together and took deep breaths, running both of my hands in my hair and clenching the roots in random places of my scalp.
who am i?
i tried so hard. i stayed up doing my homework all the time. i invested my time in football. i had so many friends. i tried so hard, so fucking hard, i lost my identity. i was too invested in things i was raised to do, to achieve, that one day everything felt fake. this wasn't who i was supposed to be. but i don't know who i am, i know who calum hood was.
why do i try?
i sighed, and my trembling hands falling to the floor. the basic human instinct of rational thought, the lil devil and angel of the dark parts of my thoughts, had slipped under.
when life seemed to come full circle and i was in a room of people who were my enemies, i couldn't face the surrounding sneers and sick smiles. there were too many to stick back into their glass cases, too many of them to ignore. i don't belong here.
and here i was, choosing the same life that destroyed mine.
it's only been two years since my dad was killed by the screams in his blood filled nightmares. i don't call it suicide. i don't call it "the incident". i call it the way i saw it.
"a man clad in green, the one who saves people's dreams." was what my dad called soldiers, and it was his reason to leave.
"freedom comes with a price." is what my sobbing mother said, as all the exhaustion and grief took over her.
and yet here i was, filled with too many thoughts, cowering away from reality. thinking that joining would save me. thinking that joining would help me understand why my dad threw his soul away, for dreams that feel fake and cinematic.
"i always wanted to pretend that my efforts would hold purpose and reverence to my family. i'm starting to think i've crossed the line... ah, i'm sorry, i think i spoke too much."
except, dad didn't speak enough. he never wanted to talk. he never wanted to truly express what happened.
i replay the soft sound of his voice, being so close to confiding in me, just fade away with an insecure whisper. an insecurity that stemmed from the horror of the flashbacks. the embarrassment of the sensitivity to aloud noises. the day drinking to stay buzzed. the slurred speech pushing us away. the missed games and award ceremonies. the grainy skype calls to no communication for months on end. the homecoming, dead silent and reeked with more beer and whiskey. what seemed like bottle and bottles of sleeping pills. the scars. the screams. the nightmares. the isolation. the depression. the sensory overload. the happiness. the drunk driving that ended it all.
i squeeze my body in tighter and relay all the medical facts, all the diagnosis', all the symptoms. over and over i go down the list.
i think of my mother, not eating for days. unable to even speak. i think of my sister, who took on the role of mother. i think of the aunties who brought grief food over and then proceeded to gossip. i think of all the fücking stigma of being the kid of a father who couldn't turn to anyone for help. i think of who failed him. me. my mother. my sister. his friends. his doctors. his boss. the "guys and glory" trope.
i lay there for awhile, unable to process anything but the sound of my air vents.
a/n: hi sorry for being dead for like 2 years lmao, school had me WORKING TO THE BONE !!
