I reached my lowest point and it came down to fight or flight. I had nothing left to fight with. That's when I realised I had to go. Just pack a bag and run like hell from the torture that was going on inside my head. I packed, and I ran – but I took my head with me.
I found peace and tranquility amongst pastures and soft, cool water, the sky glittering at night with the most dazzling, hypnotisingly beautiful stars, guided only by a friend who too, had lost the way in the past. Slowly, painfully, he pulled me from hour to hour, day to day. Finances drained, we returned.
What had I come back to? The exact place I'd left in the first place. The letter to my parents still propped up on the lamp next to my bed – telling them why I couldn't go on. What would it matter to them anyway. They are not here. Never have been. If people care as much about my death as they do about my life, mine shall be the loneliest funeral.
The knife twists and turns and everything I once had to live for has been taken away. I feel poisoned by my own family, by my own demonic, destructive thoughts.
Why, then, am I still here?
Well for now, for this one moment, I live to fight to save the one thing that has shown me the most pure form of love and affection. The one who has brought me joy and fear and laughter and memories. Beautiful memories, untainted by lies, deception, abuse, denial and ignorance. The one who would smash my heart to smithereens if only they were to cease to exist.
With tears streaming down my face I realise that I have only love for my them – and not one ounce remaining for myself or those responsible for bringing me into this world.
Easter day. Christ is risen is He? Well where is He then, because He sure as hell isn't here.
The letter remains by my bed. Ready, waiting, and desperate to be opened to reveal my pain to those too ignorant to understand.