There Is Always Hope
Intoxicated with the madness, I'm in love with my sadness.
I hurt myself because I could not take the world I lived in anymore.
At least, that’s what I was told. That is what some stranger deduced from the few sentences my pursed lips surrendered to him.
Every other day or so he would come into my hospital room, and once I was released, my bedroom, and badger me with questions. Why do you think you got so angry with yourself? Did you feel the need to punish yourself? But I didn’t have the answers he wanted. And even if I did, I was not about to tell him any of them.
Truth is, from the moment I woke up and remembered everything that had happened, I’d been wondering the same thing. I had always been plagued with the thoughts I screamed out that night. My failure to accomplish anything meaningful, the sense that I brought embarrassment to my family, how stupid I felt--all these thoughts were not new to me.
But never before had these feelings been released, violently or otherwise. Maybe that is the explanation for my episode; that the feelings had built up for so long, I simply burst. Whatever happened, it was over now. All I had were savage memories and loss of most motor function in my hands to remember.
My mother has spent most of the time since then avoiding me. I’m sure she’s doing it in the best of my interest—perhaps too scared she might trigger another attack—while my father insists that I be taken somewhere to get professional help. I don’t really blame either of them for their reactions. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you find your daughter in her room, dirty and covered in blood smashing herself into glass objects? There is no normal answer to that.
For now I’m self-confined to the walls of my room, doing nothing but sitting on my floor and examining the blood stains on my carpet. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of myself every now and then in the reflection of my windows as I look at the outside world. My face is scratched from the mirror fragments and my eyes look as hollow as ever.
I am not beautiful, I never was, but I am content with my appearance. I bear the battle scars of my internal war; I know what it’s like to reach the breaking point of human emotions and live. It may not be a fulfilled life yet, but it has regained some meaning. That maybe all hope is not lost when we break, but it is gained. If we crack, and we’re still here, there’s hope. There is always hope….
At least, that’s what I was told. That is what some stranger deduced from the few sentences my pursed lips surrendered to him.
Every other day or so he would come into my hospital room, and once I was released, my bedroom, and badger me with questions. Why do you think you got so angry with yourself? Did you feel the need to punish yourself? But I didn’t have the answers he wanted. And even if I did, I was not about to tell him any of them.
Truth is, from the moment I woke up and remembered everything that had happened, I’d been wondering the same thing. I had always been plagued with the thoughts I screamed out that night. My failure to accomplish anything meaningful, the sense that I brought embarrassment to my family, how stupid I felt--all these thoughts were not new to me.
But never before had these feelings been released, violently or otherwise. Maybe that is the explanation for my episode; that the feelings had built up for so long, I simply burst. Whatever happened, it was over now. All I had were savage memories and loss of most motor function in my hands to remember.
My mother has spent most of the time since then avoiding me. I’m sure she’s doing it in the best of my interest—perhaps too scared she might trigger another attack—while my father insists that I be taken somewhere to get professional help. I don’t really blame either of them for their reactions. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you find your daughter in her room, dirty and covered in blood smashing herself into glass objects? There is no normal answer to that.
For now I’m self-confined to the walls of my room, doing nothing but sitting on my floor and examining the blood stains on my carpet. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of myself every now and then in the reflection of my windows as I look at the outside world. My face is scratched from the mirror fragments and my eyes look as hollow as ever.
I am not beautiful, I never was, but I am content with my appearance. I bear the battle scars of my internal war; I know what it’s like to reach the breaking point of human emotions and live. It may not be a fulfilled life yet, but it has regained some meaning. That maybe all hope is not lost when we break, but it is gained. If we crack, and we’re still here, there’s hope. There is always hope….
♠ ♠ ♠
Yeah, the story is kind of abrupt. Meh.This whole story was inspired by the first four lines of "Zero" by the Smashing Pumpkins. I felt everything described in the song, but I was inspired to take it a bit further, to write about the lengths some are willing to go to to escape. I hope you liked it or understood it.