www.whyville.net Jan 11, 2015 Weekly Issue

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Damaged Goods

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I am furious. Irritable. Enraged.

Then again, I'm really not. Did you know that when people are afraid, they often express it in anger? "Please don't leave me..." is more commonly, "If you leave me, I'll never forgive you!" It's quite topsy turvy?in our fears we often act in such a way that eventually leads to our nightmares becoming our realities. Human nature is so silly, right?

So while I feel oh so ready to punch someone, I'm internally laughing at my own patheticness and am quite disgusted with myself. What had happened to that innocent little girl who used to sing around the house in her Little Mermaid dress without a care?

Oh right, she lost the ignorance and bliss of youth. Her ears opened up to the piercing sounds of her mother and father's screaming voice and the muffled cries of her sisters. Not long after the shouting ended, there would be the quick taps of bare feet on the clean hardwood floors as her sisters locked themselves into the bathroom, her parents knocking on the door not far behind as her father mocks the daughter of choice for crying. Her eyes opened up to see the tear stains marring her every sister's makeup coated faces, their dark eye bags that concealer couldn't quite hide, and tightly pursed chapstick smeared lips.

The little girl watched as one by one her sisters jumped off into the safe boat that is their eighteenth birthday, swimming far far away in an attempt to be free yet not ever being able to fully leave their past behind. Years after they have still never truly left that house, and they never will.

Eventually, there is just the little girl left. The little girl hides from her life in the dark cloak of the internet and books, doing her best to forget herself and become this happy child that never cries. In reality, this girl feels empty and dead. She has long since mastered the hideous art of silent screaming and sobbing, biting her hand and scratching away her sorrows while wondering if this time her nails would dig into her skin deep enough to leave crescent shaped scars.

The little girl is the product of generations of abuse and disorders, the leftover pain from all the profanity and beatings of her ancestors. She doesn't trust herself with not messing up her own children if she ever decided to ever have any, so she's chosen to never produce any. She doesn't want to subject such innocence to the terrors that haunt her mind and whisper all those nasty things into her decayed ear.

Yet, she wants to be in love and be loved. She talks to the girl she is so terribly infatuated with, but is all too scared too confess to. Her mind races with all the possible outcomes, and yet again the familiar sting of tears overcomes her blue eyes. What would she have to offer to that special girl, anyways? She shouldn't have to suffer through some little girl's problems. Who would ever return her feelings, anyways? Who would ever want damaged goods? The insecure little girl knows that she will never be able to evolve into the woman that her crush deserves.

So when her chapped lips and bloodied tongue move to silently count the number of pills in her eczema covered palms, she's alright with that. She's alright with the fact that her hand always violently trembles, and that the tears always burn her face like acid. She's alright with that, because she'd rather be in pain than feel that numbness that always tears at her chest. She's alright with that, because if she does decide to go through with it and actually succeeds, she'll die the same way she's always felt.



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