The beauty often brings pain.

We grow up bruising our knees and falling off a bike only to get back up and walk around unashamed of the scars we have, not afraid of the trouble the bike caused or even the fact that jumping back into what hurt you will reopen the wounds it caused you.

Much like love we run back to what causes us pain because we keep holding on to the beautiful moments and forgetting all the bitterness that we experience just to cling to that temporary satisfaction and happiness because we have something to love. It’s the belief that these moments can only represent happiness and love that leaves us wanting more and not being afraid to swim in the deep end knowing there could be consequences to every move we make.

But everything can hurt, the beauty in the night sky can just as well be the pain you feel in the darkness, the water you consume to hydrate yourself, can sometimes be the pool of depression that you’re drowning in, the picture perfect smile you’re portraying so society sees your beauty belongs to the same person who grinds their teeth because of the constant anxiety that they have because of not knowing that they’re good enough.

And we said the scars and falling down are better than being an adult, but that’s because we avoid these situations, we avoid physically hurting ourselves because we’re constantly running around in a circle of finding new ways to emotionally damage ourselves. But what’s worse? The purity in falling off a bike or growing up knowing that age brings deterioration of your health, of your skin, of all the beauty you were okay with scarring..

Today I write fully aware that sometimes the stars in the sky are the most beautiful thing you’d experience but it’s also the most painful thing you’ll see when you’re staring blankly at your surroundings and your head starts spinning like a record and you see these spots of the light, light, that’s not even there, it suddenly hits you like standing in the middle of a field and getting hit by a ball and you’re on the ground, you don’t know how you got there, you don’t know why you’re bleeding, but as you remain there feeling helpless and hearing nothing but your heart beat because you’re afraid of knowing why people are asking you if you’re okay and wiping the blood of your knees and lips, with a calm smile they tell you “You just fainted, you’ll be okay.” But that’s the last thing you need to hear, you don’t wanna know that you’re failing at being physically and emotionally strong, that you can see something beautiful and it’s not even there, it’s just a picture your mind draws up before you fall to surface, painting the ground red with drops off blood so you can wake up the next day and be asked if you’re okay, so you can wake up two weeks later and be afraid that one day you’ll see the sparkling stars but it’s not always a good thing, so you can wake up a month from today and be afraid of yourself because you don’t even remember how you ended up destroying your body with the scars and wounds that heightened every insecurity you ever had. So you can wake up everyday with uncertainty, not knowing if you’re gonna be okay, so you can wake up knowing you’re a seizure away from breaking a mirror because you can’t deal with the memory your epilepsy leaves behind.

Nowhere

But I’m going nowhere.

It’s a daily challenge to convince myself that the depression is going away slowly or to tell myself that I’m doing better. Everyday I try to forget who I am or how I feel in hopes of being too numb to accept reality.

I didn’t change.

I’m still looking for temporary solutions to feel better and to put myself to sleep every night, I’m still depressed and I can’t even pretend that there’s any improvement, I’m still remembering how painful reality is and how I am a slave to my depression who decides to take sick leave by popping a pill or drinking tequila. They tell me to get closer to God and everything eventually works out but I already know that I’m a puppet and this is God’s plan. Why would I interfere with pain that I’m supposed to endure to test my faith? But the problem with faith is that sometimes you run out and your demons run wild, the demons tell you how much easier your life would be if you didn’t have a life at all, the demons, they say they’re here with you every night when you’re overthinking and every morning when your eyes haven’t yet closed, they tell you how the pain goes away when you go away. But we argue for hours trying to find some hope, hope to live or hope to die. They tell me how strong I am for making it this far and how I’m not gonna be a coward because I tried and it’s those moments where there’s a battle in my head and I don’t know if I wanna fight or just let them convince me how fucked up I really am.

I tried.

I tried being happy and enjoying the efforts of those around me yet the cloud of darkness, sadness and pain weighs heavier on my shoulder, my fake smile can’t even fight away the tears while I stare blankly with the picture of emptiness crowding up in my head, oh I’ve tried thinking I’ll be stronger but I let my 3am pain convince me that even that’s too hard, I tried enjoying life but I enjoy every 25 minutes of regret and temporary satisfaction that I give myself before I burst into tears again. I tried not being suicidal but sometimes I see other plans while shaving and taking pills.

And when it comes down to it, will I even make it for another two years? Or am I hanging on the edge of a mountain waiting to lose my grip, I dont know where I’m going but if I’m taking my depression with me, I’ll be lead nowhere.

It’s not a bad thing.

And you’re going to reach a place in your life where you’re at peace with being alone, when you’re completely okay being in your room watching Netflix the entire day, where you reply 6 hours later because you’re antisocial and you don’t mind anymore.

But the problem is finding out the true intentions of those around you, the problem is in friends disappointing you, the problem is when your family won’t even give you that peace you require.

What if people are just nice to you to score points with you? What if friends are only there out of sympathy? What if family treats you as if you’re not blood? You get so used to everyone making you feel like you’re no one that you’re at peace with being with no one.

And it’s not a bad thing, it’s not a bad thing when you become alone to avoid being left out, it’s not a bad thing when you stay in your room to avoid being shamed, it’s not a bad thing being alone because the wrong people made you feel alone when they were around, because they didn’t wanna acknowledge you, it’s not a bad thing being alone and avoiding drama, lies and all that comes with being with people who genuinely don’t fucking care.

Maybe you should try.

But the strange part is when the depression kicks in and you just wanna be alone, that’s when you really need someone, that’s when you really needed someone to make you feel like your life matters, make you feel like your presence is needed, when the walls are closing in, when you’re contemplating suicide, you needed someone but you told yourself, no one wanted to be in your life so no one bothered you, they let you stay “angry” they wanted to give you your space and let you introvert. When deep down they could have been there and made you feel loved, they could have included you and made you feel wanted, they could have just looked pass everything you’re going through and been there, the problem is everyone including yourself see and know the depression but never reach out to each other, you don’t ask for help and they don’t offer help.

One day, one hour, one life ruined.

They say it’s what we wear, it’s how we speak or how we ask for the wrong attention, they say it’s usually by strangers or people with psychological issues. They say we asked for it. They say you should have known better, they say how can you allow this to happen? They say you asked for it.

I was only 15, he promised me no harm, no hurt and no pain. He lured me in by telling me “we’re just going on a date, baby.” I trusted his words, after all we’ve been together for a year.

I was only 15 wearing my green check shirt and waiting for his car to fetch me, he arrives looking uninterested, untidy, unbothered, the drive was quiet and I should have known why.

He drives home and I ask “Why?”

“Come in and say hi to mom while I change.”

I believed him.

I enter and he latches the gate and door and I’m standing in an empty house, not even his mother was home.

He asked me about why I wouldn’t give him my virginity and I responded telling him that I’m too young and I’m not yet ready, I was 15 when he slapped me and called me a liar.

I was 15 when he pushed me on the couch and pulled off my clothes, the louder I screamed the harder he punched, I told him to stop, I said no, I cried as loud as I could, no one heard me.

I was 15 when he threw me on his bed, called me a bitch and never heard a word I said, I was too thin when he punched again, too weak to fight off the man who promised me no harm.

I shouted, I cried, I pushed him.. I tried.. I tried and I failed.. he got his way while I laid there losing every bit of happiness and sanity I’ve ever had.

I was 15 when I ran away once he finished.. I ran with blood between my thighs, swollen jaws and him crying and saying he made a mistake.

I was 15 when I was raped, I tried to escape, I screamed, I fought but I was too weak. But they tell us that we dress for it, we ask for it and it’s usually by someone we don’t know.

I’m coloured with pain.

I remember sitting on the couch watching romance and planning out my future with my first love, I remember the innocence, the happiness, the hope, the faith, the love..

But it takes an hour for an argument to transpire, for him to call me a bitch, a whore but how? A virgin? He’s my first kiss, my first touch, how am I the names he calls me?

He thought I didn’t want sex because he thought I lied about being a virgin so he called me names, he punched, slapped, strangled and headed me.. he stopped when I bled.. when I cried.. when he came to his senses..

I had scars of blue, purple and sometimes black. Scars not deep enough to make me walk away, marks my mother asked about, but he loves me so he won’t do it again and if he did.. I’ll repeat, he loves me, he won’t do it again. He loves me and the swelling will go away, my skin will be clear again.. he loves me, he won’t lay his hand on me again.

The puzzle piece

He filled a gap, emotionally, he gave me the love and attention that my family didn’t, them being too focused on my older siblings, I needed someone too.

He blew me away with kind words and telling me how beautiful I am, he sang a song that consist of him never hurting me and loving me in a way no one can, he touched me in ways that didn’t involve being physical and I submitted to his every word. I was too young to understand the misery I’ll soon bring myself, the pain I’ll soon discover, the realisation that I’ll ruin my life, my teen years and my own happiness.

He was the biggest chapter of my life yet he left the greatest damage.

The lonely child.

I was a lonely child, the child who spoke to the birds that chirped, the child who listened to the wind that blew away the feeling of loneliness, the child who made friends with animals and things that wouldn’t talk back. I was a sad child, the child who had family but they hardly showed they cared, she flew her kites and made mud cakes, she grew up lonely, she grew up sad, she grew up not knowing things will always be this bad.