Hiraeth

I was seven when I had my what my therapist later explained was my first suicidal thought. I was outside spinning in circles, trying to have fun. As the world swirled around me, I began to notice things. I stopped my twirling and looked up at the sky. I opened my eyes for the first time, really opened them, and as my dizziness subsided I saw the world. First I saw the clouds, fluffy and white and filling the sky. Then came the sun, big and bright, dominating everything else in all its blinding glory. I saw the trees, their leaves shaking in the gentle breeze, the shadows they cast on the ground. And finally I saw the birds, flying through it all. Flying up, up and away from this earth, getting higher and higher until they disappeared altogether. at that moment, I wanted more than anything to be a bird. I wanted, needed to get away. Fly up, up, and disappear from this earth to be swallowed by the blazing sun.
--
From that moment on, I was consumed by the idea of disappearing. I wanted nothing more than to fly away. At first, I showed this through an obsession with flying. I collected all things aviary. My favorite bird was the peregrine falcon, after I learned in school that it was the fastest bird in the world. I grew to love airplanes as well. On my eighth birthday, my father took me on a plane ride and I was amazed. The sun was even bigger from so far in the air. I was so close to touching it, and I yearned even more than ever to be gone.
At some point, however, my wonder transformed into anger. How did birds get so lucky? Why did they get wings and freedom, while I was forever bound to earth?
When I was nearly nine, my fascination with flying became one of falling. I may not be able to fly, but I could fall. It started when my older brother went skydiving. He spoke of the thrill and showed me videos. He was falling so quickly, surely no man could survive that, but then he simply pulled the string for his parachute and his fall slowed. I felt a deep sadness in my heart for him when he landed safely.
That night I dreamt that I, too, went skydiving. I was falling and for once, I felt content. In my dream, I didn't pull the string; my fall continued I disturbed. It was exhilarating. I could see and feel vividly as my body fell hard onto the pavement, my bones being crushed... An instant death.
The next morning, I told my brother I was sad that he survived. He stared at me as though I were a monster, his eyes filling with worry. He told me that was a horrible thing to say and not something a good brother would wish upon someone. I was shocked at his reaction, I had thought that everyone wanted to disappear. This was the moment I began to realize something was wrong with me.
--
I was nine when I had my first "attempt." Still obsessed with falling, I decided to jump off of the roof. My family lived in a one story house, so I didn't get injured too severely, but I did end up with a broken arm, resulting in s trip to the hospital where I was asked a series of questions regarding my well being. After the previous conversation with my brother, I had learned that lying to adults could he in my best interest, and so when the nurses and doctors asked what happened, I simply told them I fell while trying to get a better look at the birds. My former obsession with the creatures I now shred had served me well in that moment.
My therapist tells me now that I shouldn't have lied, that this could have been an early turning point for me, saving me from all of the emotional and physical damage my body received in the following years. She thinks if I'd gotten treatment then, that I would have had a normal childhood and not been thrown into her office covered in scars and probably irreparable.
For each time I tell her I'm not sick and don't need treatment, she points out another self inflicted scar. It's good for her that new ones keep popping up, otherwise she may run out of things to bring up in our sessions.
--
"Mr. Jacobs, how are you doing?" My therapist, Bethesda says T the beginning of each session.
Following tradition, I assure her in a monotone that I'm still breathing, be it good or bad. After our exchange we share a small grin, until seconds later she morphs into Serious Therapist Lady, and attempts to delve deep into my soul. I try to humor her by answering her questions and supplying her with stories of my childhood. I tell her of how, after I broke my arm, my parents felt guilty for not watching me closer, and so they bought me a hamster. I named the hamster Snow, and I cared about her more than I'd ever cared for another living creature.
Snow was the first organism y ever felt love for, otherwise I've been detached and apathetic towards fellow humans.
When Snow died, I was crushed. That pain makes me glad to not feel that close with anyone else.
--
My second attempt was when I was twelve. After another injury, this one truly accidental, I had prescription pain medication, and I attempted to overdose. I explained it away as an accident, and my parents felt horrible for not monitoring the dosage more closely.
My older brother came forward at that point and said he thought I may have done it on purpose. This upset my mother and angered my father, yet my brother continued speaking, explaining how he thought I may be depressed I cried and assured my family I was fine, because I was unsure of what they may do to me otherwise. Could I be depressed? I had heard the word before, but didn't truly understand its meaning.
I knew my brother was right about my attempt, but after that night there has always been tension between us.
My early teenage years were filled with more attempts, and of course many lies to accompany them. For each failed attempt, I had a story of what happened.
My brother tried each time to get my parents to understand there was a problem, but he was brushed off. Over time our tension morphed into hatred, and by the time j was fifteen he no longer tried to help me, or even bothered speaking to me. While I felt upset that I no longer had a relationship with my brother, I was slightly relieved to have him off of my back.
However, with time I began to realize that without my brother constantly checking on me, my well being slipped more. About two months after contact with my brother stopped, I began to self harm. It began with just a small cut on my stomach to explore the habit, but it very quickly became addicting.
Over the next few months, every inch of skin that could be hidden with clothes would become covered in scars and new cuts. My secret habit was my sanctuary, and I was hiding it well, until I decided to progress to cutting my wrists as well. That went fine up until my sleeve came up one day in school and someone noticed.
I was called into the principal's office, where he stated he was worried about me and asked that I show him my arms. The expression on his face was one of disappointment and mock concern.
My parents were called and once I arrived home from school they were waiting to have a talk. This was the only situation I had no excuse for, as the proof could be found on my wrists. That day also marked the first time in years I'd cried in front of another human being.
--
The week after my parents learned of my habit, I had my first appointment with Bethesda, my therapist.
I had nervously stood in the lobby, waiting on instructions as to where to go, when she came out. She was a large woman with a stern face and an obvious no nonsense attitude, and it quickly became apparent she wouldn't be fooled by any excuses that may have worked on my parents.
"Orion Jacobs, I presume?" she greeted, extending a hand. I nodded, not ready to speak thus far. She continued, "My office is this way, Mr. Jacobs. I am Bethesda.
--
Through the years I became more comfortable with telling Bethesda about my past. It was easy to open up because it always felt as though my memories were just someone else's takes I'd happened to memorize. I had always felt that way- disconnected from both myself and the rest of the world around me.
As our sessions continued, Bethesda told me I had depression and anxiety. She tried several medications, but nothing could fix me. Throughout our sessions she's told me many times that only I can fix myself. She tells me that my outlook and feelings are up to me, and that the medicine can only help to balance out my mind. That only I can control my life, and I agree with her.
--
All my life I've felt inhuman. I've felt disconnected from the world, like I am a stranger in this body. I've never felt like I belong. I've always thought that some people exist by mistake- they were never meant to be created, and if they continue to try and live in this world it is a betrayal. They'll be forever miserable, only managing to hurt themselves and others.
It took eighteen years to fully come to the realization that I am one of these mistakes; I am a defective human being.
And so I am writing this to offer closure to anyone who may have cared: Bethesda, my parents, perhaps even my brother. I'm sorry I let it drag on this long, and to have hurt you so, but I'm finally going to be doing something right for once.
I am taking Bethesda's advice. I am going to take control of my life here and now; this is where I end my story. I am finally going to find where I belong.