Oblivious Absence

How can I explain to you how I feel, if every time I do, you sigh and say “Just don’t think about it.”

You act as if this dark, omniscient being, who hovers around me—like a black puffy cloud made of sadness—was not there.

The truth is, it was and continues to be.

This dark cloud takes the shape of a tall, slim, shady puff—a bit like a man.

He wraps his cool hands around my neck like an anaconda, his grip tightens with every breath I take.

He blankets my pleas to leave me be, covering my mouth with the thought that I am nothing more than a toy left behind in the playground.

A toy no one has bothered to claim.

A toy car with a missing wheel—no longer useful to her owner.  

A toy that does not belong in the playground floor, but instead, in the tall green can by the park’s entrance.

He hisses softly in my ear, “I am your only friend.”

He makes me repeat his words as if it was a prayer for a faithful Catholic.

Needless to say, I am his loyal disciple.

Momma, you told me “love yourself first, to be loved by others” after you saw my arms scribbled with lines like a diary, except that the pen had become your razor’s blade.
Momma, all I needed was a hug.

It’s not that I wouldn’t want to be happy, it is that against the nights out with my friends, the family visits, or my failed tinder dates, in the end, I’m not.

You say things like:

“Brighten up!”

Or

“Why do you isolate yourself?”

As if my doubtful thoughts about myself was not enough!

As if I chose this for myself!

You have no idea how hard I tried to think positive when I wake-up.

I would tell myself things like “you’re beautiful” or “you CAN accomplish anything you want today”

Despite all my efforts, I couldn’t get up from bed.

He pulled me down, sunk me in deeper.

Although he had a weightless appearance, the deep crushing pain on my chest would become increasingly heavier as he slowly climbed on top—one leg and then the other.

You were clearly oblivious to the fact that after three years, I started to give up.

Sometimes, the rare times that I manage to get up, it came along, as a baby monkey attached to its mother’s back.

I drag it with me, like an iron shackle, 80lbs pulling down on my foot like a spoiled child.

It wore me down and drained my energy.

“Go to the gym that will help!”

“Have you tried meditation?”

Momma, why don’t you listen to me!

This wasn’t my choice!

I did not choose to feel this heavy weight on my shoulders, or to have every muscle on my back tense up to the question “Why are you always sad?”

Momma, I wish that the question: “Why live, if in the end, we all die?” was not constantly bouncing around in other thoughts like your stupid worn down tennis ball—that despite many years after playing that competitive sport—you still hold the ball dear to you.

It’s not about how much medication I take, or how much meditation I do, it is the will to survive…and I am losing it!

Daily, I stare at the mirror before my bed and recite the Our Father, as if that was the key to my salvation.

Where is the salvation I was promised?

I tell myself “I am fine. I’m okay Jack, just relax,” but in the inside, my will to live has been slowly descending, and now, there is only stones at the bottom of this pond.

Before, the thought that people would judge my actions, my words, or my self-expression would force me to not only purchase from the most expensive clothing lines, but to wear a mask daily disguised as a smile.

All of which you are an expert in, right momma?

However, I am no longer afraid of other’s judgement, but my own.

The variety of ways I am able to inflict pain on myself, on my temple, makes me paranoid.

 My hands shake at the sight of a razor.

My stomach aches like milk to a lactose intolerant, at the sight of that beautiful bottle full of your white round hydrocodone pills in the bathroom cabinet.

My life has been crushed by a black hole in a galaxy filled of possibles and impossibles—ten million of lightyears deep—and it does not matter how much I try to dig myself out of this feeling, in the end the shovel of positivity is broken.

You think that I wouldn’t want to succeed?

Momma, my dream for a family, my dream for a better tomorrow, my education…they all have been affected because of this, him, it!

How can you possibly think that I want this for myself?

The recognitions I’ve received, the positions I held throughout the community, the friends I had…it’s all gone momma.

I’m scared.

I am afraid of the brown thick rope that swings to the rhythm of the ceiling fan.

I am afraid that I will love the feeling of the fibers and string in this thick rope, wrapped around my delicate neck.

I am afraid of what comes after.

My hands sweat and become clammy every time I try it on.
My best creation, the perfect necklace.

I tried, I promised I did, but against all my efforts, depression has taken over me.