La vida es un pozo negro y apesar de que uno rasguña y lucha para salir de ahí, nunca se llega a la cima.
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It’s funny how when I first got on tumblr I was so lost and scared to mess up my blog. Now I stay on for hours at a time and blog until my eyes begin to get heavy and I can’t keep them open any longer. It’s the last thing I do at night. It’s like I just snuggle into a little corner on this site and wait until I pass out from re blogging my heart out.
Nessuno ti capisce quando ti senti sola/o… possono solo giudicarti, dire che stai mentendo, dire che esageri. Ma quando senti che non c’è nessuno disposto a sentirti, nessuno disposto a farti compagnia… per ore, nessuno che c’è lì, sempre… nessuno con cui ridere, nessuno con cui piangere, nessuno con cui scherzare. Nessuno che ti abbraccia.. nessuna migliore amica. Già, a volte manca una persona del genere. Perché un ragazzo non può sempre compensare certe cose, sembrare la tua migliore amica, ecco. C’è bisogno di tutte e due queste persone. E a me una ne manca. E vorrei tanto averla questa persona…ma purtroppo non accadrà. E quindi rimango così, sospesa perché manca un altro pezzo di cuore.Via onemoretime15-5
I sit and stare at the picture of my mother and I from when I was 8. Her head is nestled in my cheek and her arms are stretched out around me holding the camera at a safe distance from our faces so we can both fit the frame. I am shirtless because as a child I preferred to be naked. She is wearing a white T-shirt and flaunting a giant smile that outshines mine.
God, was she beautiful. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I would study her every move and each curve on her body like I was taking notes on how to become a woman.
As I grew older I learned to wear more clothes and count tears.
She taught me many things while I was growing up, most of which I don’t remember, but there are three lessons that I do:
1. Men will break your heart but you shouldn’t lay in bed for weeks at a time mourning the loss of another persons touch.
2. When your daughter brings you buttered toast in bed because she’s afraid that you are starting to melt away from your sadness, don’t slam the door in her face.
3. It’s okay to be alone. You are beautiful with or without validation.
I was two years old when my parents got divorced, my mother was twenty-three; the same age that I am now. Having a child at an early age tends to lead people to find refuge in the arms of another man (so I’m told).
We moved into my grandmothers house where my room was littered with porcelain dolls and a bunk bed even though I was an only child.
I spent most of my days baking cookies with my grandma while my mother made women feel beautiful. It was a talent of hers. Her hands held the ability to change the way a person felt.
I always wondered why she never practiced this on herself.
Since her teenage years my mother had battled with mental illness and was diagnosed with Obsession Compulsion Disorder, Bipolar Disorder as well as Severe Depression.
She had weekly rituals with a therapist and her psychiatrist that would prescribe her a cluster of assorted colored pills to keep her mind and heart well.
They looked as if she held tiny planets in the palms of her hands, she would tilt her head back, plop them in her mouth and her eyes would instantly reveal that space and time had just been swallowed.
I vividly remember my mother going through frequent self tormenting episodes where the world would take its toll on her, break her down, and leave her in a fetal position begging for some kind of relief in the warmth of my lap.
We’d sit for hours on the floor as I brushed her hair away from her face, whispering reassurances in between her quiet sobbing.
I can’t forget the weight of her body as she begged me for a way out or the shape her mouth made as she wailed and I would watch the little droplets of pain stream down her freckled face finding a home inside her dimples. I can still hear the seriousness in her voice as she asked for my permission to kill herself.
I always hoped that my arms would rock my mother back to sanity.
That whole process never phased me much, in fact I took pleasure in her need for me. It was the only time I ever felt truly close to her. It took three years of therapy to teach me about codependency.
This would not be the first time that my mother got admitted to a psychiatric ward.
I wasn’t ready to get out yet, I needed a few minutes before going into the hospital. I looked over at my mother who was positioned in the passenger seat next to me with her hands shaking, hunched over, taking a long drag of the cigarette that she thought was going to be her last for a while.
She wore an oversized white T-shirt and sweatpants with the remains of last nights makeup still slightly visible around her swollen eyes. Her hair resembled a heap of tar stained bundle of hay with bone-colored strands peaking through at the root from lack of upkeep.
“What if they lock me up and don’t let me leave?” she said.
I rolled down my window, threw the leftover filter from my cigarette out and shifted my attention to back to her sadness.
“Obviously they will let you leave. You are coming here on your own will to get help. We talked about this, you need to give this an honest shot. You want to get better don’t you?”
I heard the words slip out of my mouth and tried to catch them before they reached her ears noticing my condescending tone and remembering how much she always hated it. She didn’t seem to notice.
Slowly shaking her head as if I couldn’t understand she said, “I have no other choice. I can’t live like this with all these bad thoughts. You don’t understand Brittany, it’s this hopeless feeling you get where nothing feels like it will get better. It’s like you wake up everyday and you’re sorry you did; you don’t know why, but you know you’re angry at whoever is responsible for it too. “
I sat and stared at her noticing her eyes; they weren’t sad eyes, they were more than that. Her eyes had a desperate way about them, where you felt the blackness was constantly looking for a new home inside of you. I felt the familiar feelings she spoke of menacingly pacing back and forth somewhere deep inside me, waiting for the right moment of weakness to strike and thrust itself to spew out of my mouth. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, forcing it back into the depths of my core.
Trust me, I know what hopelessness feels like.
It was 5 o’ clock when we started walking up towards the emergency entrance of the hospital. I held her hand as she reluctantly trailed behind.
I noticed a rose bush; I stopped and picked the biggest one and handed it to her.
“What’s this for?” she asked, looking at the delicate flower in the palm of her hands.
“I don’t know, I guess it’s a reminder that even the most beautiful things are hard to hold,” I answered.
I didn’t know why I said that, I didn’t know if it even made sense, I just knew it would probably make sense to her, and I think it did because I saw her smile for the first time.
We reached the entrance of the sliding glass doors and were greeted by the faint smell of bleach and sadness.
After we got checked in we were led to our room. There was a woman stationed outside the door in front of a window that looked at us. The walls were painted a shell color and in the middle laid a small twin sized mattress posted up on a wooden plank with a thin white sheet covering it. A plastic black chair sat in the corner of the room. We took our designated seats and drifted through time for a while silently.
We were interrupted by the door opening and a middle aged woman stood in the door way.
“Hi, I’m Mel, I’m from the mental health association,” she looked toward my mother.
“Dana can we talk alone for a little while?”
I gave her a reassuring nod and left the room. After about an hour of pacing back and forth outside the room the door finally opened and Mel informed me that it was my turn.
We retreated into an unoccupied carbon copy of my mothers dorm and she began to speak.
“So, I spoke to you’re mother about the way that she’s been feeling and she’s telling me that she’s having a really hard time with all the kids, you know with the divorce and all. It seems like she’s very sick and has been suffering from depression and anxiety her whole life. I was honest with her and told her that I think the best decision would be that she stay with us and get help, to get her medication sorted out and some intense therapy,” she paused, her eyes seemed to to take pity on me.
“But, I’m afraid I think she’s not going to through with it.”
I felt her words shoot across the room and slap me in the face.
“What do you mean you don’t think she’ll go through with it…” I said slowly.
“I mean, after I explained the procedures and that she’d have to stay the weekend, she immediately started to get anxious and thought that maybe it wasn’t a good fit for her” she said.
I sat there feeling the weight of her words settle into my heart. I thought this time was going to be different, I thought she would finally get a hold of her life and admit that she needs help and get better for all of us.
“Maybe you can try and convince her,” Mel said and she opened the door to go back to my still-crying mother.
Resentment hid in the furrow of my brows. I knew the anxiety was running high in her and Mel probably had told her something that she didn’t want to hear like how it was going to be really hard and that it wasn’t going to happen over night.
I got back into the room and my mom shot up with her whole demeanor changed, she was less small, less sad, more larger, angry, and ready to fight.
“She told me I would be put with a bunch of fucking crazy people up there! I refuse to be put away with a bunch of whack jobs that talk to themselves.”
“Mom, it’s not like that, everyones here for one reason or another, but they want to be here to get help Mom, you need help. I don’t know what to do for you anymore, don’t you understand? All you do is cry and yell at the kids and yell at Grandma and Grandpa. I understand you’re going through a hard time, but you can’t keep attacking everyone,” I begged.
She rolled her eyes and started to cry heavier.
“There you go reminding me that I’m a bad fucking mother again, that I do nothing for you!” she cried.
“What?! No, that’s not it at all…” I pleaded.
“No, you know what I’ll just stay here because you want me to, all I ever do is do what other people want me to,” she spitefully said.
“Mom, I want to see you get better, I want to see you happy but this is what I mean, you’re too erratic, no one is trying to hurt you.”
She gave me one of her piercing stares, this time with hate, not desperation. This stare did not try to find a home inside you, it meant to destroy.
“Just leave me here. No one understands. No one cares. This is why I stayed with Joe, because you and your grandparents just want to get rid of me,” she spit.
I sat there stunned and not entirely shocked that the night turned into this. Within three hours my mother had become a completely different person. I felt empty and hollow trying to make sense of everything that was spewing out of her mouth. I felt the tears start to build up and sting my eyes.
“But mom…” I whimpered.
“Just leave, I want to be alone.” She said while rolling herself up in the bed sheet and I watched as her face disappeared to white.
The ground seemed to sink beneath me and my legs began to wobble in her words. I realized for the first time that no matter how many times I would try to save her, I couldn’t. You can only watch someone you love destroy themselves for so long until it begins to destroy you.
I felt the feeling could only be compared to loosing a child.
I felt like I failed.
Trust me, I know what hopelessness feels like.