Copyright 2015 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
I helped my Parents move boxes from the trailer into the Main House on Parcel B. It seemed like the boxes never ended. Stacks and stacks of never ending boxes filled with stuff. I felt and looked horrid, from the stress or the moving or both, take your pick. Though there was something about physical labor that was good, it distracted the mind for a bit. Every night I crawled in bed, my body was exhausted. As long as I could get my mind to shut the fuck up, I would sleep.
I wondered if there were cute little magical creatures whose job it was to create chaos. So at night, when we were asleep, exhausted from the day's moving, the cute little magical creatures would come in and refill the spaces we had cleared out, with more stuff. That way when we woke up the next morning, it was like we had made no progress. The more spaces we cleared, the more stuff got stacked right back where it was, like we hadn't moved anything. So it never did end.
The daily grind. Get up. Brush my teeth, do my therapy [stretching and energy exercises], put on sunscreen, fill up my water bottle, have breakfast, and get dressed. Grab my hat, get some kleenex, and stuff my gloves in my pocket as I head out the door. Every day, the same routine, the same scene. All that seemed to change was the date and the day of the week.
Time seemed to run together now, each day, pretty much the same as the day before. The only thing that differed was whether or not we'd get a new notice or posting, or which Parent would go into an Episode and how long it lasted. Oh, and how many times my panic button got tickled.
Today, it was all about unloading the trailer. Walk to the trailer, choose a box, pick it up, carry it inside the Main House, find a place for it, and put it down. Walk back outside, and repeat the process over and over again until the trailer was empty.
Then maybe, take a break for five minutes or so. Walk back inside and work at shifting all the boxes around so you can actually walk through the Main House. Maybe take one or two boxes upstairs. Come back down the stairs. Move some more of the boxes stacked outside the door, inside. So on and so forth it went. The daily grind of moving.
This was my life. This was what I had come to. I had turned into a shell of a girl, broken and battered by the stress of my life. I was hanging on by a thread, every moment of every fucking day now. I kept trying to keep my head above water, long enough, so I didn't drown. But part of me wanted to drown so at least then the nightmare would be over.
I would die like this and they would put on my marker:
"Here She Lies. She died moving The Stuff. She died from loss of hope. She just couldn't FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE."
Everything I was or had become would die. The world wouldn't even notice my passing. Not really. People that knew my Parents might send a condolence card but I doubt they'd really mourn a person they never knew.
The few that knew me, or that I had touched enough with my life, people who I could count on two hands or less, would mourn my passing. Fewer still would be devastated by it. Viv would be crushed. My Parents would lose it, especially my Mom.
But the saddest part, was that my unfilled Dreams would die with me. Gone. And I would never get a second chance at them.
"Fear not that life shall come to an end, but rather fear that it shall never have a beginning."
John Henry Newman
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A TASTE OF DESTRUCTION Book 1 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
I woke up to a world crumbling around me. Our Family Farm was in the middle of foreclosure as an economic crisis rippled across America. Hope was fading fast and there was no end in sight to the chaos coming for us, ready to destroy everything we...