I had been living with my aunt and uncle and their kids. The only real difference from living with them and living with my abusive mother was that at my aunt and uncle’s house, the abuse was never physical. So I guess that’s sort of good. But it still sucked, and I was still a waste of air, an accident, product of “that slut of a sister,” garbage, etc.
I was in highschool now. Then I was presented with an option. It was a pretty big decision. I used to think that it was a horrible decision and that I should have stayed with my aunt and uncle, but now I’m sort of thinking that maybe it was a good decision because without it, I probably wouldn’t be where I am today.
My mother had been in therapy, lots of therapy, and lots of rehab, and classes on how to raise your kids and all that good stuff. She came back. And I was given the choice to go back to living with her or stay with my aunt and uncle and cousins. I don’t think I was really in my right mind when I decided to live with my mother again, but that’s what happened. Maybe I just thought that was the right thing to do, or that I was just so, so tired of all the emotional abuse that some physical would be a little better now. I could probably defend myself, I mean, I was bigger than I was back then. I chose my mother.
I didn’t really talk to her for the first chunk of my time in the new house with her. It was kind of awkward, of course. I hid in my new room most of the time. She wanted to make things better, she wanted to try to be a happy picture of mother and son. I tried to do that, or I would have tried like I meant it if I could have forgiven her. I spent my entire time with her being angry and bitter towards her. To be honest, I treated her like shit and even made her cry on occasion. I didn’t really feel bad about it though because I figured that since she destroyed my childhood, she deserved to be treated like shit. At least I wasn’t beating her and throwing beer bottles at her.
But it still wasn’t good.
I tried, I really did try, to forgive her, or at least have a healthy relationship with her. I mean, she’s my mother for god’s sake. We had counseling sessions often and the occasional check up from child services. It was fine.
It wasn’t really fine but you know.
Sometimes I would get frustrated with how things were and ask myself the typical questions like “Why does this have to happen to me?” and “Why can’t I just have a normal family with parents that act like they love me like everyone else’s parents?” I was always bullied, I was abused as a kid, I was quiet and never spoke out much because, obviously, I was a waste of space and my opinion didn’t matter anyways or I’d say the wrong thing because I’m a retard. Blah blah blah my life sucks, I hate existing, I want to die. I wish I could just die.
Wait wait wait hold on, what was that? That last bit. Wanting to die? Death. Ahhh yeah death, nice.
I cut myself here and there, but not nearly as often as I used to. See, here’s the thing, I had reached a point to where even cutting myself became something that required too much effort. I would just have to clean it up anyways, the blood would be messy. And I would have to wear sleeves all the time and that’s kind of a hassle because it’s hot outside and I still have to take P.E.
I’ll just lay here and… I dunno, vegetate.
When’s the last time I ate something?
What time is it? Was I asleep? God I’m starving.
Oh well. Nothing really matters anyway.
Days passed like that and it didn’t get better. That became my way of living, trudging along the quicksand path of my everyday life. I felt so heavy. But the thing is, I didn’t really care or have any motivation whatsoever to do anything about it. I just wanted to die, because existence was pointless anyway and literally no one would care if I disappeared.
I will kill myself.
Then I remember Dustin.
Before he moved away, we had made this stupid little promise to each other about the future. We promised not to kill ourselves until we could see each other again. I’m not talking about visits, I mean like, living together. We had planned to graduate high school at least and get enough money to move somewhere we could just exist together. Until we got sick of living and were ready to die. Then we would commit suicide together.
Don’t get me wrong, we totally understood that things change and that plan could totally be trash by the time we actually reached that point. That was okay, because that’s in the future. We just didn’t want to lose each other to suicide unless we did it together, so then we wouldn’t have to live without one another or something like that. Edgy, I know. It sort of kept me alive though. And I say “alive” because that’s all I was. I was just not killing myself. I wasn’t really living. I was just existing because Dustin was pretty much the only thing I actually cared about.
So I think I should go into last summer. The summer before my sophomore year, which is what grade I’m in now.
I think it’s weird that sophomore has that “o” between the “h” and the “m.” It kind of bothers me.
But anyways, last summer.
I was busy being my miserable self as I had described earlier, when I get news that I can go spend half the summer with Dustin. That’s really great, and I decide to do it. I fly up to Idaho.
It’s pretty dry in Idaho, but it’s also pretty scenic. I’m from the city, so I don’t usually get to go biking down worn roads and see orchards and cornfields under a blazing sunset. Sometimes my allergies acted up because of the freshly cut hay, or just dust in my nose in general. I was pretty enthused about biking with Dustin, because we got to see all the gorgeous sunsets and plant life on those back roads. And it was really relaxing, just continuing down those old roads without a destination, just seeing how far we could get before it started to get dark. Not a care in the world. Once in awhile we would bring lunch or something with us and stop to eat and enjoy it all. He had moved to a really breath-taking place.
I have no idea about the rest of Idaho, but that little town that we were in was great. I guess I enjoy nature quite a bit. That makes sense, with my existential attitude and all.
Speaking of existential feelings and being idiotically profound, I started smoking weed a little bit before that summer started. It was alright I guess. Sometimes when I got really depressed I would just get high and think those famous stoner thoughts that get made into memes on the internet. My mother found out a few times, but she kind of sucked at being a disciplinary, so it didn’t really matter much. She tried to share some of the drug counseling that she had gotten with me, but it’s kind of hard to convince someone who believes their life has no value whatsoever and occasionally has mental breakdowns to stop smoking their pot. And plus, I had zero respect for my mother anyway, so I didn’t care what she said.
I didn’t really smoke around Dustin because it would suck if he got in trouble because his mother actually cared about him. He had also decided that he didn’t want to get into drugs of any kind because he had enough problems as it is and he would probably go nuts if he got hooked on something, weed or not. That was fine though, it was a smart decision.
He actually did get high one time though, but that was all it was, just one time. We were sitting around a laptop outside his driveway at night with some other people. It was kind of like one of those hippie drum circles but only edgier. He was playing the guitar, and some girl brought out some weed, and we started doing it and he decided to try it. He’s kinda funny when he’s high. But it’s fine though, he’s never touched anything since then. Which is probably good since he has anxiety. I mean, I heard marijuana can help with anxiety, but it’s probably just way better for him to stick with his prescriptions that he now has.
Wow I didn’t mean to write that much about smoking pot.
I feel like I should apologize.
I really don’t smoke it anymore, just on rare occasions. Because I didn’t really wanna fool around with that stuff anymore.
I noticed myself showing real symptoms of depression, and Dustin noticed it too. It’s like we were discovering the amazing realm of Mental Illness™ together because he was also showing signs of having anxiety and he had attacks pretty often. We sort of kept each other going though. I cuddled him and gave him someone to lean on when he was having an anxiety attack, and he somehow managed to drag my useless ass out of bed and get me to eat something on days where I was feeling depressed. I wasn’t that bad when I was with Dustin. Okay, it wasn’t good, but it wasn’t as bad as when I was alone/with my mother. Like I said, we kept each other going… Sort of. Until the end of July.
(Part Four End. To be continued.)