Wrists

Or maybe it wasn’t.

“Graham, I—I...” My mother was at a loss of words. I couldn’t bare to look her in the face. I was scared to look. The bitter and ugly realization that maybe my mother was just as hopeless and confused as I was about this settled in. That was why I was the caged beast: she knew I was experiencing inner turmoil, but she didn’t know how to handle it, so she ignored it. And ignoring it resulted in the beast growing larger and larger until it was too big for its cage, leaving her frightened and desperate to shut it back in. My tears were returning, but for a completely different reason than before. “Do you need me to send you to a facility to get you some help? Do you need professional help, Graham? Because I can get you whatever you need.”

“What?” I asked. I didn’t really understand what I was hearing. Was my mother actually attempting to brush off the problem by sending m off? Was this her idea of “help”? Was she building a bigger and stronger cage to control me?

My mother continued to make noises like she was about to talk, but never did. She was still unsure of what to say or do. I overestimated her ability to handle issues that weren’t her own. I overestimated my mother’s ability to give her child the help they could never give themselves. I overestimated my mother’s ability to be a mother.

“I can talk to your father and look into it tomorrow,” she said softly, trying to continue to seem gentle and understand. But her arms now felt too tight and cold. Her chest felt hard. Her rocking felt forced. I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t believe what I had just thrown myself into. Admitting my problems to her wasn’t going to help at all; now that she knew, she was going to tell the rest, and they were going to proceed to watch me like an elephant in a room.

I was no longer a caged beast. I was a science experiment gone wrong.

I pulled back from her and shook my head side to side, wiping my face from tears. “No, mom.” I muttered. “I don’t need to go to a facility.” —I need you.

My mother flashed me a confused stare. “But don’t you need help? Isn’t that what you wanted? I can get you help, Graham. Your attitude isn’t healthy; not at all. Your father can go searching for one of the be—”

“—No,” I said. This time louder, harsher. Anger replaced frustration. “I don’t want to go to a facility, mom, I—... I just—” —I fucking need you to fix me. Otherwise, who will!?

Back to base one. Nothing was fixed. I’m still ruined. The demons are still there. I’m still a fuck-up. The only thing I did accomplish was fixing the broken cage. Before I could get up to hurriedly leave the house—to leave my house for good—I broke down the third time that day. But this was worst than any of the others. This one entailed throwing losing my footing and falling on my butt on the carpet, body shaking so hard I couldn’t do anything but just sit there.

Her arms were back around me, but I didn’t want them there. I tried to shrug her off; my mother was stubborn when she wanted to be. So I let her hold me, because that’s the minimum mother’s could do to help their child, right?

I didn’t want my mother to understand anymore. Or maybe I did.

I wanted nothing more than to see Elijah.

He was the only one who seemed to know me in my life.

My own mother didn’t even get me.

I didn’t know what to do.