Bent, Not Broken: My Scoliosis Story (among other things)

Fear and Tears

    I suppose if you want to know what came "After" you have to know what came "Before." Well, when I was little, I was a really happy kid. I have a fraternal twin sister and two little brothers, and I would have been perfectly content to spend my afternoons with my family, humming the theme to "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse." My grades were always good, and I was completely satisfied with our small, 50 student school. I was innocent. Naive. Then, of course, came the move. In my 4th grade mindset, my parents were forcing me to abandon everything I had ever known for the barren countryside. In reality, my dad had to switch jobs, and we moved about an hour and a half west. But that's beside the point. I soon adapted, as small children do, and formed a new group in this massive 200 student zoo. And that was the beginning.
    It was here, smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, that things began to go wrong. (Yes, I'm talking about middle school) I'm sure I'll talk about this more later, but it's a bit hard to write about now. Long story short, my dad began to take more days off work. He would yell and swing his fists, screaming and cursing at us, no matter what we did. My siblings and mother shook it off, but somehow I couldn't seem to forget it. I took it to heart. I would concoct elaborate plans to avoid seeing him in the morning, to avoid the pain I knew came with the smallest mistake. I would wake my youngest brother, only six at the time, up at 5:30 each morning to keep him from being the victim of my dad's verbal assault when he woke. Born three months early, Paul has always had to cope with severe mental and physical disabilities.
    It killed me to see my father hurting someone so helpless, and in my struggle to protect him, I somehow managed to forget myself. I moved as a machine, shutting emotions out to do what needed to be done. Wake Paul. Get him dressed. Make myself presentable. Eat quietly. I tried to fly under the radar, and when he yelled, I took it. What else could I do? I shut everyone and everything out, and still I couldn't keep the pain from grasping my mind in the quiet of night. I woke from constant nightmares only to return to the same emotionally grueling routine, and silently wondered how nobody could see me drowning.
    I became obsessive with the idea of death. I never hurt myself, I wouldn't dare, not with Paul so defenseless, but my mind was a perpetual pendulum. It's worth it, it's not. Nobody'd miss you, Paul can't stay without you. You're worthless, just hold on. I didn't feel that anyone cared about me, so I didn't care for myself. I cried myself to sleep but pretended I was fine. My smile was wide but my eyes were empty. And still nobody saw my cry for help. If it weren't for Paul, I'm not sure what I would have done, if I would have bothered staying at all. But I did. Something in the eyes of that child made me see myself. I wanted to protect him like nobody could protect me, to save him before he felt like he were drowning.
    I devoted my life to protecting his, and little by little I rose from the floor. Months passed and spring came, and I brushed the dust off my shoulders, a new shell protecting me. Did the situation get better? No, not for a long time. But I did, somehow. And it was only the beginning.
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Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. It was short, but I wanted to end it a certain way. I just have to say before I move on from this that this is a serious topic, and I don't mean for anyone to take it lightly. I know how it feels to feel alone, to fake a smile, to cry into pillows. But it's possible to rise above that. If you're struggling with anxiety or depression, or just need someone to talk to, message me, and I'll be here. And if you've conquered depression or anxiety, comment a heart for those who are still fighting, as a reminder of how many of us have made it. Best wishes!