If you asked me to tell you a story, I don't know how entertaining it would be. It may be drawn out and overdramatic, puny or insignificant. I use these words specifically because they come to mind when I think of my own story. Etched onto this page a memoir of all the justifications I have yet to attach cause to purpose.
When I was a little girl, my life was composed of late nights, sister stalking, and tracing colored pictures one color and coloring them in with another. Ever since, I learned never to judge a drawing by its tracing because on the inside of the jagged lines there was actually matching colors. Most of the time.
As I grew older, I came to realize the meaning of true deprivation. Deprived of my mother, of my sister, and of my father. Abandoned in a home where all went their own ways, I grew into the walls and lingered through the empty halls trying to figure out where all the love went.
I finally found my answer though. When I was twelve years old. I was sent from hospital to hospital, many a person trying to explain what had become so normal to me. Because evidentally a strange person's normal isnt normal indeed. But a normal person's strange is nothing to me. All I knew is that all my life I had hurt. My limbs ached with every movement and my bones felt heavy with shackles. However, nothing was ever said because I was too strong enough to ask for help.
You see my family was made of warriors. War is where they made their sacrifice. They gave up their futures, their children, their chance of a normal life. They fought through terrors in the night from moments they had once survived. So I kept my mouth closed. I knew my pain was nothing in comparrison. My legs hurt, but I had legs. My back swelled but at least it moved. My life became an anthem of pain medicines and ice packs. By the time I was thirteen, I knew more medications than vocabulary because somedays my body would tell me I couldn't get out of bed.
When I finally spoke up is when my mother left me lonesome. She was hit with the bills because of a child she never wanted. It hit her hard and she hit back. I didnt know which pain hurt worse. The loss of my explanations or the loss of my mother. Because, you see, I was never given one answer. I was given symptoms. They told me what hurt and I sat through the blood tests, MRI's, and everything else hoping that they would tell me something more than, "You hurt."
Nine. I got used to this answer as time went on. I never gave up my ten because I knew that no matter what I went through I would be okay in the end when I had my own life beyond a judgemental family. I had always known what my life would sum up to. Although, I never imagined all the winedy roads and U-turns life took me on, I knew I would be happy when I had my own children.
When I could hold my child in my arms and promise that no matter how much they went to they would never feel their ten. That was, until I felt mine.
Two years later, my second year of highschool, I finally gave up. Having gone two years saying nothing of my pain, I held my breath and dove into the concept of a diagnosis. "Maybe it is all in your head." That took my pain level to an instant five. "Maybe you have lime disease." That lowered it one. "It isn't lime disease. Maybe you have Juvenile Rheumotoid Arthritis. Too bad there would be nothing we could do." That takes us to seven. "You are her mother correct? Is there history of joint problems in your family?" Eight.
"Well, although we have no specific diagnosis, I think it is safe to say that this will not end. That this will most likely be carried through your genes. I am sorry." My heart sank. My entire life I had wanted to be a mother. Instantly, my dreams were shattered. I knew I could never bear my own child knowing they would be exposed to a life of suffering. I felt my ten that day.
I didn't feel it in my knees or my feet or my ankles or my shins. A deep ache started in my stomach and tore my heart open with dry, crusty hands. Then I went numb. I embraced the pain I felt, and I realized that no matter how much I hurt, that I would never feel that much pain again. So you asked for a story, and you got one. Sleep well.
