Her Story

Chapter One: Vicious Mother

Her Story

Chapter One: Vicious Mother

                                             January 16th, 2014

    It was late September when everything went crashing down for me; my grades, my self-esteem, my happiness; everything. It was early January when my mother brought up therapy to my father about me. I was shocked, startled even. Therapy wouldn’t help anyone, if anything, it made situations worse. I get it, she was only trying to help, but I didn’t need nor want it. I was fine withering alone and depressed. I was fine slowly dying as flashbacks of that horrifying night would, ironically, flash into my mind late at night. I was fine waking up in sweat, my hands shaking and my heart pounding.

    I was fine.

    That’s what I told everyone. I knew it was a lie, so did they, but I kept on saying it. I believed I was trying to convince them, when I was actually only trying to convince myself.

    I had been in denial for so long; it had actually caused physical, emotional and mental damage to me. But, denial only portrayed a small part of the damage that had been done. The real reason was back in late September. The reason I had been begging to forget, but couldn’t. How could anyone ever forget something like that? It would haunt them for as long as they shall live, scarring them for life.

    I sometimes question myself and God, why this had happened to me?

    I do everything right. There are some mistakes here and there, but they’re small, unidentifiable mistakes.

    With me being a teenager, you’d expect me to make tons of mistakes that do more badly than good, but no, I get good grades, I volunteer, I withheld from fraternizing with boys, putting education first and this happens to me. This caused my grades to slip, this caused my friends and my falling apart because I ignored them, this caused my parents to lie awake, checking on me every fifteen minutes, worrying about me to no ends, this was the cause of my depression, this was the cause of everything. This was even the reason of my parents practically forcing me into therapy. This has ruined my entire life.

    I was angry at the world at first when it had happened. So angry, that I busted my laptop, threw picture frames at my door, and even punched a hole through the wall of my bedroom. I just never could understand and grasp the idea of what had just happened to me. I couldn’t deal with it; I couldn’t handle the thoughts and images of that night that would flash into my mind at random moments. The pain it had brought me, emotionally, mentally and physically, was too much for me to bear; so I stayed cooped up. I stayed in my bedroom, day in and day out. I kept the lights off and the curtains shut along with the door closed. I told my parents not to bother and then I would lie down and cry.

    In a way, I’m ashamed of my behavior, but then again, what kind of person, girl or guy, wouldn’t act the same? To me, my life ended that night. It basically did. I’m numb inside, I’ve lost all communication with the outside world, and I’m practically in my bedroom rotting away, ignoring the pleas and cries from my parents.

    I feel like I’m trapped inside of my body with no way to resurface. I’m watching the world move on with their lives while I’m still pacing in the past.

    I sometimes feel like I’m drowning, and a silly thought always pops into my head, “how didn’t Ariel feel this way when she sat onto the rocks. She lives and breathes water, but when she would lie onto the rocks and shore, she would just sit there, breathing our air... Shouldn’t she feel like she’s suffocating?” Weird, I know... but the question never fails to run through my mind at times.