How We Unravel

Prelude

They say that I am lucky.

I graduated with flying colors; now a licensed professional working for one of the top firms recognized internationally; living independently, doing modeling on the side.

Most of all, they say I am lucky to have a brain, face and body like this. I was a complete package, according to them.

A face and body to die for.

A face that could get what she wants; a face that would make doing favors easy; a face that could get the attention of anyone in the room; A face that would make men go sleepless at night thinking about how I look naked on their bed, holding out their phone and masturbating to my bikini shot profile photo on Facebook.

Yet, what they didn't know was the hollowness from deep within, burrowing my soul and leaving me nothing but ashes of the burning memories of happiness. The scars of my cuts on my wrists at night when I have nothing else in mind. The nightmares that kept me awake and holding on to the sleeping pills at the table on my bedside.

Nobody asked if I ever wanted to have this life.

All they ask is: "You're too beautiful to be single. Why don't you get yourself a boyfriend?"

What they didn't know is I am so broken deep within that nobody will love these cracks that are hidden from the naked eye.

And whenever I tell them that, I was rewarded by a laugh and "You can't possibly be depressed. I'd give anything to have your life."

What they didn't know is that this life they're trying to have, is a life of lies and betrayal. A life that has feared living and commitment.

When did it start, you may ask? I am not sure. I just woke up one day that I realized I feel so empty.

I was 9 when my parents fought in front of us about issues we still cannot understand—at least that's what they said. They were screaming and crying and throwing hurtful words at each other, words they never really meant. Then there would always be the agony of choosing between either of them, and it was always a torture, seeing the pain in my dad's eyes whenever I choose my mom.

I was 10 when I witnessed how my mother tried to end her life with a cable wire around her neck, locking the doors and not responding to the loud banging at her door. They just finished fighting. I was knocking at the door, at the window, pleading her to stop, telling her that we, her children, love her. I love her and that it wasn't really over.

I was 11 when my father admitted an affair with another woman. "She makes me happy," his voice still echoes in my ears. "She was the one who was there for me when all your mom did was argue and point out my flaws."

I didn't understand. I was still young. I was supposed to be an innocent young girl with dreams and fantasies and fairytales, but all those were shattered into several pieces.

Everything fell into a flashback—about how he told us his story as a child who was abandoned by his parents and how he will never let us feel the same pain of loneliness; about how he kissed my mom and declared his love for her in front of us; about how I waited for him every night to come home with my favorite chocolates, and ended up sleeping on the couch. He'd kiss my forehead; carry me to bed, and the next morning I'd lie awake magically in my bedroom.

I was 12 when he eloped with his other woman. All of a sudden, he stopped coming home. All of a sudden, my mom would wake me up and tell me that I should go to my room because it's past two in the morning and he's not coming back. He won't be there to carry me around or bring me chocolates or buy his promised books.

Nights became weeks and weeks became months. I got tired of waiting. I stopped waiting. I forced myself to get used with his absence, with every school event that he's not there, with every morning that he won't drive us to school, with every lunch break that he's not at the school gate to bring me my favorite lunch box, with every night that he won't be praying with us.