All My Pretty Ones

1 day ago

I won’t ask for help from my mom or a professional or any kind of adult. I just can’t. But instead I dump it all on my friends. They can’t do anything. Martyna doesn’t know what to do and Cat is breaking too. I’ve always tried to be strong. I didn’t realize it until the other day. I always told Cat she was the strong one for fighting her demons, but I was strong too. Because I pushed my demons so far down that I could pretend they didn’t exist so I could always be there for Cat when she needed back up. I was so strong for a while there. But my demons have bid their time wisely. They have grown stronger and now they’re out to play. They’re too strong and I’m too weak and because I wasn’t strong enough to help Cat fight she has become weaker and can’t fight with me and I’m dying here. I can’t fight this thing. Depression. No, I can’t be. Not me. But it seems to be. I don’t understand. I’m hurting Cat because I’m hurting and I’m so sorry but I’m too stubborn to get help. Maybe I tell Cat and Martyna these things because maybe i’m waiting to see if anyone will actually give a damn. If anybody will step up and do what I can’t.

3 days ago

You’re standing there with the 1/2 gallon of milk when you spot the lady with the purple eyebrows. It’s hot and you’re dizzy and the milk is even starting to sweat. You don’t recognize her but she speaks Portuguese and your mother embraces her like a long lost aunt. Your hair is sticking from the humidity and your headache’s back. Any other day this would only have been mildly irritating, but today it’s just pure hell.
“She stopped eating.” You feel sick. “She stopped eating.” The nausea is taking over and you want to collapse. “She stopped eating.” You’re head is pounding and you want to scream. You want to scream and scream and scream.
“She stopped eating.” It’s not a lie. You did stop eating, but it’s still hurts to hear. When others ask how you lost all the weight that’s how your mother answers. Maybe it’s meant to be a joke, but that’s not the way she says it. She acts as if she is recounting a fact, a simple truth. She is, you know it. But what kind of mother says it so nonchalantly? What kind of mother just seems to accept it?
“But you don’t want her to know.” Says the voices. It’s true, you want to hide this secret until you wither away. You want to be so fragile others are afraid to hug you too hard. You want to be blown away by the wind. But it doesn’t lessen pain. It doesn’t change how worthless you feel when your own mother doesn’t seem to give a damn if you live or die. If she dosen’t, then who dose? “No one.”
You’re still standing there with the milk, it’s perspiration dripping down your leg, and it’s felt like an eternity. You understand the foreign language your mother and the lady with the purple eyebrows speak, you’ve grown up around it, but it all just becomes white noise. You’re pocket keeps on vibrating, but it’s no one who actually cares — just twitter spam. You’re ready to explode. You’re becoming more numb and even more detached by the second. Small talk and laughter and fake smiles, that’s all the world is. Cars go by and suddenly you just want to take a step into the middle of the road. Let one hit you, see if you feel anything then; see if maybe people will finally care.
You’re drowning and the milk is your anchor. What would happen if you just threw the milk? Let it splatter all over the ground, seeping into the cracks. What if you threw yourself? Jut fell to the floor and banged your head until this pressure inside left and you physically hurt so much that you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this pain. Maybe you would do such a good job that YOU would splatter into the ground, bring a new meaning to losing your mind as it seeped between the cracks.
You’re standing there with the milk and nothing seems more beautiful than dying. You’re standing there with the milk and you’ve never felt more alone. You’re standing there with the milk and you’ve never screamed louder or been more silent.