Dear Whoever you Are,
She told me your name was Lucy but if you don't mind I don't want to call you that. It makes things personal. Personal is scary for me.
I once got really close with someone and I told them everything. They swore that they weren't gonna tell people. They did. I didn't know what to do, so I've been hesitant for a long time.
This was in Second Grade. I know, what kind of secrets does an eight year old have? Well, I told them about my mom and dad fighting and who I "liked" and how I didn't like that one kid in our class because he was a horrible person but the worst word I could even say at that point was "poopyhead." He beat me up. And stole my bike.
That was a long time ago and I still remember. Why? Because the human brain remembers traumatic events and all the horrid details better than run of the mill things such as what was in the mailbox or if you shampooed your hair yet in the shower. That's why they call it a "mental scar" because it sticks with you longer.
The human brain, especially my brain, works in screwed up ways. I could be fine one moment, and then I'll start thinking about her and then my brain goes off the rails and I hyperventilate and I don't understand why it happens or why you should know this. It gets really bad. My family is great and they try to help me but I have heard my mom say things about me through the vents.
"He needs to get this under control, he can't live like this. I can't live like this. I love the boy to death but this needs to stop, Harold. He's always having those damned anxiety attacks and I can't handle much more before I snap. I want the best for him, and I don't want him to live like this. Nobody will ever understand or tolerate him. He needs help, Harold. Professional help."
I've gotten help before. I see a therapist and like I mentioned I'm on zoloft, or as I like to call it, the "anti-psycho drug." It works, it really does. I just can't control myself.
My family gets worried about me. I've had my cousins corner me and ask me questions, and I try to keep calm but I just want them to leave me alone because they're hurting me more than helping me. And I know they want me to get better and I want to get better too but it's hard and complicated and when they're in my face it takes everything I have not to just shut down.
That's exactly what ususally happens after my cousins go home. I shut down. I take my pill and drink coffee and go upstairs with my coffee and I turn on the radio softly because if I play it loud my parents get worried. Then I sit in a little ball on the foot of my bed softly rocking, focusing on the taste of the coffee, which usually contains vanilla creamer, and focus on the music, the soft guitar melodies and voice of the singer, with the time signature of the drums in the background, and the basslines joining in. When the song ends I focus on the deep and comforting voice of the radio host, which is usually Jackson when I get upset.
I met Jackson once when I was little, before I things got bad. I was with my parents who were giving blood. I was seven and at that time I was a fan of the radio show even though I was too young to understand what exactly he talked about. Jackson came over to my parents and thanked them for their blood donations, and then he noticed me.
"Who's this?" he asked. I told him my name, and he smiled at me and shook my small hand with two fingers, which were about all I could fit my hand around. He handed me a cookie, like the ones they give the blood donors and he did the same for mom and dad. He thanked them for their patronige once again, winked at me, and walked to another family of donors.
Anyway, I try to focus on the songs. They're older ones, like early pearl jam, the smiths, david bowie, nirvana, early foo fighters, stuff like that. Some of them are ones I know pretty well, and others I don't know. I never sing along. I just let the singer sing and the drummer drum and focus on each individual sound and then the sound as a whole.
There is one exception to the "no singing along" rule. That's when Kansas' "carry on my wayward son" comes on. I remember listening to that song in the car with my dad, and then her, when we first met. She had a mixed tape in her car that her step-brother made her when he went away for college. She said it was a metaphor.
You know that she was bad too, not as bad as me, but still bad. She put up with a lot when she was young. Her dad abused her, as you probably know. He'd hit her and yell at her and call her a slut even though she was only 11 or so. He did the same to her mom too, and she's a lovely person. When her mom got up the courage, she left him without saying where they went and I guess her father was too drunk to care.
Her mom met her stepdad and within 2 years they got married and remain so today. When she was 13 her brother was 16.
Her dad eventually found them and things got bad again. He would do the same things to her, and worse stuff too. Her stepdad called the cops and it resulted in a big court case that stressed her out. Her stepbrother would tell her every night to "carry on my wayward son." He was the best thing that ever happened to her.
My mom just yelled telling me that dinner's ready. I'm gonna go. Thank you.
Forever yours,
W
