The Beginning

I think it was when I was younger. I didn’t know how to walk or talk properly. I walked on the ground avoiding cracks in the dirt and making my fingers fly in the air. 

I wish sometimes to go back to those simpler times.

But that wouldn’t change what I became. 

I suppose I’m supposed to write things? Things to make sense of other things. Like a fucked up jigsaw. What counts as a thing anyway? Timeline of events? She said I could write whatever I wanted about my feelings. Is it cheating to be so formal about the chaos? I suppose- it’s mine right? I can do what I want. I should. Okay. Okay. Go forth. Go. Come on. 

WHERE ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO START? The beginning. A beginning… my beginning. I remember being cold a lot. I was on the streets. I wonder what I did there. Pick fruit and clean the streets mostly. I saw a boy running away with glee from his parents and trip over a rock. He fell really hard and made a squelch. The last sound he made. I think it was accompanied by his mother’s wail but I was pushed to the ground out of the way. My mother did the pushing. My father did the breaking. I still see the slight crookedness in my middle knuckle. A reminder of that depth the world falls to. We couldn't afford a healer so when I cried that it hurt they snapped it where it was meant to go and told me to stop the crying- it hurt their ears.

I was an only child to parent’s who didn’t need another mouth to feed but wanted the free labour. Capitalism boomed in my house. Too bad I was just the mule. Slapped into walking straight and carrying loads, I was shipped off as a mail deliverer. Running about and flying with my fingers became steadfast and strong walks. Let those bones buckle but do not bend. Not ever. To bend was to be lashed. Who knew fingers were afraid to fly? This is quite the start huh? A beginning where the world has collapsed and you become a diligent worker or fodder for the pigs. Lovely stuff. I think school was a thing after that? You go to school, they teach you dreadful material. I don’t know how they found that to be the truth but burning pustules does not help. They fed us too. Porridge mostly. Sometimes we got cinnamon if we behaved. Other times they spat in it. But “who cares?” said my parents, “Food is food you ungrateful b*****d.” Then it was back to work and then bed. 

Work, school, sleep. 

School, work, sleep 

I wish it were restful. I hoped not to wake up before I interacted with others my age but after I did- it was hell :) 

EDIT 

I showed Lisa this. She said that even though I did technically write things that it doesn't count as processing if it’s just an itemised list. She’s wise but sometimes I want to throw things at her. I’m supposed to also introduce people in my life to myself again because “yOu hAvE tO kNoW whO peoPLe aRE fOr yoU tO uNderStaNd yOUr reLatiONshiPs”. How am I even supposed to do that? She said to talk about what I wrote early but also introduce people. Confusing woman. 

3 Introductions I guess. 

Mother- a crass and bitter woman who hated me for coming out of her almost as much as she despised my father. Manipulation was her game and gosh was she good at it. 

Oh you lost something you’re sure you didn’t lose but need it real bad! 

OH! Here comes super mother to save the day. What an angel! 

When the blackest of hearts find the bright torch of manipulation- they will drown the light of innocence in their wake. 

That was who my mother was and I was simply a punching bag for her wrath. 

Father- I don’t know. I don’t know what to say about him. I wish he were mad. Madness would be an excuse for what he did to me. No. He was calculated in his acts of wrath. A hero to the town. A villain to my soul. Who would listen to the cries of a foolish child. I don’t know. 

Lisa Bienchen- a wise and tough old lady if I ever saw one. She was my worst… best memory. It is cynical of me to talk about her like that. But I hated her for the longest time. Hated her kindness. Hated her wit. Hated her jokes that made my sides split. I hated her for giving me hope because. Because. Because I hated myself. She was good to me. And still is. Wise old pain in my a*s. 

I hated myself. Maybe I still do. Maybe the world would be better off without me. But for a child to be crushed. My wingless flying fingers crushed like Icarus. My spine severed from imagination and wishing. I was broken before I had the chance to start and I didn’t even know. I didn’t know that taking away hope and crushing freewill made monsters. 

I learnt though.