I'm now in Exile – cut off from everybody and everything that once mattered.
The people responsible for my existance shall be equally responsible for my death. Their unfalteringly obvious signs demonstating how much a burden their two offspring have had on their lives has crumbled us into empty shells of human structure without direction, without confidence, and without passion.
Parents are meant to love their children – as I did mine, and raise them to be strong and proud and confident, to show love and respect and to expect the same. My chance cruelly snatched by the person to give birth to me – the same person who denied any emotional needs I had from birth. No cuddles, no 'I love you's', no 'kiss it better' for the bump on my head. No. Instead we had education, and were shown how NOT to be children. Force-fed empty promises and turned backs when comfort was needed most.
I was referred to a child psychiatrist after I broke down at school and a teacher came to my rescue. He told me I could achieve my dreams, and could do anything I wanted.
My dreams back then were the same as they are now. Nightmares of a world on fire and the yearning to throw myself off a viaduct to have my body as broken as my mind and soul – shattered into a thousand pieces with no chance of ever being whole.
Despite my anger, and more recently – apathy – toward those responsible for my existance, I called them – from 1000 miles away- and begged my Mother to come and stay with me. My words bearly audiably through sobs, I told her I was falling apart and needed her. The response was no less than I should have imagined.
'No, I'm busy'.
She's been busy for nearly 26 years.
Kids fool around – you know, play the 'how do you think you'll die' game. From the age of about 7 I knew my death would not be of illness or old age. The cause of my death was not even in the vocabulary for a child that age – it was a word I had not yet learnt, a way I did not yet know was possible or comprehensible.
21 years later I am still convinced and I feel the sand slipping through my fingers as my time here slips away. I even said that last words I would speak would be the Lord's Prayer (no, I'm not particularly religious but had a very Christian schooling which has altered my perception, somewhat), yet as I sat by the Altar, the whole of the inside of the Church echoed with my sobs and the words would not come. How dare I ask anything of God? I deserve nothing and see no reason why He should listen to me now?
And so here I am in Exile. Rejected by those responsible for my existance, and their own parents, and those who called themselves friends – and by God. Not even I can get me out of this one.