As part of KpopINT we are sharing a bit of our work each week with you guys!! Kicking off this week is my story, Save me. This is my first shared piece of writing and I'm both really excited and scared for you guys to read it. It's more of an angsty story and I hope you guys like it and I also hope that I can share more stories and a fan fic with you guys in the future.
I believe life comes to us in waves. Like an ocean of subconscious thoughts, actions, and people it engulfs us. At first gradually, then suddenly. Some of us float safely on by, the waves passing over them as if protected by an invisible shield. Nothing can touch me, nothing can hurt me. Then there are those who get absorbed. Each wave wrapping around them and pulling them deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit. Although they try to claw their way out, the waves are too strong for them to grip onto anything. And so they spiral, into the dark corners of human consciousness. I had my first break in middle school. A mere 14 years old. People say those years are the happiest of your life. But they don’t know or they’ve forgotten just how complicated these can be. That’s when it hit, the first wave. I spiraled onto a darker field, where the love and support of those around me seemed to form a barrier that didn’t allow for anyone to get close. Encased in a glass box I was sent to therapy. That never worked well. Everyone talks about how therapy is a form of soul searching. How people pay $300 dollars an hour to talk to themselves with someone present and somehow come to the realization that their lives aren’t as shitty as they thought they were. By any means necessary they evaluate your situation and prescribe you something to numb out the voices that keep you up at night. But in my case it wasn’t like that. As I walked down the cold white hallway, lit so brightly by hospital fluorescent lights that you couldn’t seem to find a way to hide, not your body or your soul, I put on a mask over myself. The new me I decided. My parents had suffered too much and I was not ready, mentally or physically, to let them know just how I felt, how sick I was. So I threw on the mask, smiled, and walked down the hallway, hiding the scars that covered me as if I were the only one that could see them. The therapist was like most, fake compassionate smile that made you believe that they truly cared about what you had to say, when in reality they were secretly behind you, ready to take your money and run, like a pickpocket in a busy city street. I saw through that smile; I saw through everyone’s fake smile that they give when they don’t know what else to say. The “things will get better” or “just be happy” people give you when they really don’t have much control over the situation. So I did what I could. I told them what they wanted to hear so their fixated eyes would shift attention to something other than me. Just a small break, a moment of panic, a loss of the notion of the self is what I told them. They smiled and nodded, took notes and gently asked me about my situation at home, at school. If I had any friends or talked to anyone, how much I ate, slept and worked. All standard questions to ask a sick person. I simply smiled and told them what they wanted to hear. I was fine and it wouldn’t happen again. Mild anxiety with a bit of depressive tendencies is what they said. No pills, no meds, just a few vitamins and a better control of emotions was their cure. And I was free. Only I wasn’t really free. I was still being pulled under the wave, sometimes deeper, sometimes being released and managing to surface before being pulled down again, only this time deeper than the one before. I was alone, and I became an instant nightmare, covered by an angel like screen.
I lived like that. For a couple of years. Refusing to accept anything to numb out the pain. I wanted to feel everything. It seemed to be the only things that made me feel alive. It kept me grounded from the dream I was living in. Things seemed to go on forever, so I lived like that, for 2 years. And then the second wave hit. Only this time, I met someone. I will keep his name out of this for reasons I don’t understand myself. I’d like to give him a bit more mystery and credit than he deserves. Yes, there were many before him, but like all those past and maybe those in the future, they got tired and left. He (who shall not be named) was in a way like me, or so I liked to think. Shy, reclusive, with a heart of gold, cracked in places from the consequences of life. I fell for him, gradually then suddenly. I will admit things were good for a while. The pain was numbed and I could feel again. And then it hit. The wave began to pull me down further than it once had before. You know that feeling when you hold your breath underwater for so long your lungs feel like they’re about to collapse, so you desperately swim to the surface to breathe? It felt like that, only I couldn’t swim up to breathe. And I guess in a way I brought him down with me. I have a tendency to do that with people. Like a ball and chain I drag them along with me without hesitation. He spiraled down alongside of me though he managed to somehow get a hold on the surface. So as we hung there, on the side of the abyss, one slip from falling. He looked at me and smiled. I prayed for an angel to come down and talk me out of doing bad things the way it did with George in It’s a Wonderful life. But no angel came. Through this whole time, I had wanted the pain to end, and as the wave held me I tried to let go. I tried everything in my power to let go and fall. To stop my pain and that which I imposed upon others. I let my body go limp and accepted the fait that lay before me. Only he didn’t. He held on to me despite almost falling in himself, and became a life raft in the murky waters. Now I won’t say things were peachy afterwards. I don’t believe in sappy love stories. I believe if you’re going to write a love story, it should be raw. No make believes, no happy endings, no prince charming, only harsh and cold reality. And reality is, we had fights, bad ones. We spent nights on the floor (well at least I did) wishing we were other people, and that the pain we felt wasn’t real. He helped me and hurt me in a way no one has managed to do. I never understood what people meant when they said that the dire desire to be loved drives a person to do many things. So when he hurt me, in spite of myself, I forgave. I forgave several times, and to lessen the pain I found things that made me forget. But I never forgot, those little voices still whisper in my head, asking me questions, reminding me of the acts. Despite of this, he became, dare I say it, my best friend. Then he became a part of me. We connected on a level of which only the cosmos and galaxies are capable of understanding. I became addicted to his scent, touch, and feel. His body, intertwined with mine, gave me a euphoric feel. It made me forget, so I became addicted. And I guess everyone gets addicted to things that make them feel whole again. He made me feel a new, strange way. So I loved him, in spite of me, of my feelings, of his actions, I loved him. And I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
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