It All Started With a Diary

lies

Or maybe I was only accepting the love I thought I deserved. The one that was never there: my mothers'.

Regardless, due to the lies my family told me, all of those years were wasted now. Even if I would have ignored her, even if I would have talked to her...it was my decision to make. They weren't the ones to endure what I had, and no matter how badly they tried to erase it, it was mine to handle.

It hurts so much.

I hugged my blanket close, as if it could disguise the world from me. If only it were that easy.

I stared off into the darkness for what seemed to be an enternity. Through the walls, I could hear Ryland and my father talk and bicker, obviously about me.

I squeezed my eyes shut as another round of tears fell over my cheeks. The pain was close to unbearable. The reality of what happened sunk and tore right into, and right through my heart.

Another sleepless night.

***

"Just focus on getting better, baby," Celeste spoke through the phone, her voice honeyed with concern.

I nodded even though she couldn't see me. "Thank you," my voice was raspy from crying, which made it easier to play off as a sickness.

After our call ended, I clutched my phone tightly. I held on like my life depended on it, considering to call someone before I went through with this. Anyone. But, then I remembered.

No one really cares.

"I'm the crazy one," I muttered as I stared at my sheets, tracing the aging scars along my wrist. "I guess so."

I was home alone. My father left to work hours ago, and so did Ryland. It was a Sunday morning, a very doleful one, at that. Neither of them attempted to speak to me; they were realizing their faults, I guess. But, as I stared at the razor blade, I knew that they should have thought twice about leaving.

I hadn't done it ever since I moved in with my brother and father. They knew, and thought that I was finished, as I had too. I was a happy girl to them. But, it was all fake.

As fake as everyone else around me.

God, I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to revert to my old habits, but it was too hard to break a cycle.

My mother's voice, her treacherous memories.

It was too hard to deal with it on my own. No one else would understand my situation, nor would I try to make them to. For as long as I could remember, I had taken care of myself emotionally, and that wouldn't change now. But as the years went on, it grew harder. I was caught in a spiderweb, a very powerful, painful tangle.

The woman who birthed me. The woman who watched my first breath, who was supposed to be my unconditional love. The woman who used to hurt me until she saw the signs of blood. The woman who had dragged me through the dirt, and spit on me to finish it off.

She called me. Long gone was my anger for her, instead replaced with the possibilities of a relationship or a something between us. But, perhaps it was too late. My own father and brother decided it better to hide her attempts, rather than trust me enough to handle it on my own.