31 Jul Broken and Bent;

To,
The People who have been there in my good times and bad,

This is not for everybody.
This pain is not for everybody.
Neither is my story.

I don’t know if I should be putting this up. You see, writing something sets it in stone.
Am I up for it? I guess we will know now.

I have scars on my wrist. Multiple thin scars. I was stupid enough to think that it will end my problems at the tender age of thirteen.
Did I want them to end..? No.
I started liking the pain..the rush..the self inflicted harm was my rush.
Do I still do it? No.
Do you know why? Not because it is wrong. ONLY because it attracts the drama.
Do I want Drama? No.

Over the course of time, I have realized it is so much better to NOT talk about it to people.
Do they understand? No.
Can you make them? No.

There was this one time I went to have blood samples drawn from my body to diagnose an ailment.
My mother, who faints at the sight of blood, was lending me her words of encouragement and asking me to look away when I feel the prick of the needle. All this while, trying to stay strong for her baby girl.
I felt the cold cotton swab on my skin. I felt the needle prick my skin. I did not bat an eyelid. I kept on looking at the blood filling up the syringe.
No. I did not flinch. My mother, on the other hand, was in knots.
I was 18 then.

If you think Hannah Baker is all over this letter, she is not.
Neither have I tried to end my life nor will I.
I love my loved ones too much to see them suffer once I am gone.

If this is not my cry for help to save me from death, what is this?

This is another cry for help. The more dangerous one.
To save me from Myself.
Have you ever heard that Man is his greatest enemy?
No. It’s not true.
The mind is our greatest enemy.
Also, only the mind can save you from yourself.

I am a victim of child abuse and a broken family.
No I don’t need your sympathy. Your sympathy will never make me feel better about myself. I don’t talk about it. I don’t have to. I don’t think I need those awkward silences around me. I have suppressed those memories as a child. They don’t bother me when I am wide awake and working my ass off. They haunt me in my dreams. People ask me why I don’t sleep. If only you could see what I see in my dreams.
Can I explain them to you? No.
I cannot help them. Sometimes, the pain is too much. Sometimes, I sleep like a baby.
I wake up screaming the other times. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. Some nights I just twitch and turn half asleep. Do you know the worst part? I don’t remember what it felt like. I don’t know what it feels like to be ripped apart from within. All I am left with, is hazy recollection and fragments of imagination. This is the worst part. Imagination. Now that I know what it must have felt like to the nine year old who couldn’t comprehend the brutality she was being subjected to, my heart cries. I want to travel back and save her. Save her from him and then later, her own mind.
If only we could turn back time but we cannot.

As if these were not enough, I suffer heart breaks.
In all fairness, these are easier to handle. I can always nurse my heart back.
I choose not to treat everyone with suspicion. This is after trying too hard and failing every time. Maybe this is it. Trying too hard?
The heart wants what it wants. I firmly believe in giving life a fair chance. I believe in giving YOU a fair chance. Assuming the worst of people never gets you anywhere.
Assuming the best of people did not get me anywhere either.
Do I regret any of it? No.
Will I do it all over again? No.

My smile fades away suddenly in the middle of a conversation. No. It does not magically wipe itself off my face like they show on the silver screen. It fades away in my heart. I can feel it but I cannot show that on my face. I loose my appetite some days. I hog endlessly the other times.
Does anybody know this? No.
Do I need help? No.

I got inked.
I got piercings.
I have red hair
I love them.

Do I look like a rebellious woman? No.
I don’t have to look the part. I have a raging rebellion in my mind all the time.
That is the beauty of it. The rebellion keeps my mind occupied and I feel the calm.
Without this struggle, I am Nothing.
Without this I am a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
I don’t need saving.
I don’t need help.

You see, My cry for help is NOT for myself. It is for the ones going through this.
I just want you to know that you are not alone.
There is beauty in broken pieces.
Embrace them. Help Yourself.
Others will follow.

I might be broken right now. I might be broken forever.
Time has been cruel to me, bent me in ways I cannot explain.
But has it stopped me? No.

Survive; The world needs you to tell them your story.
Inspire; the world needs your smile.
Breathe; Show them how it’s done.