Mommy and Daddy
By: Marissa Lyons
Tags: Depression, Suicide, Short Story

INTRO

Depression. A word I should be too young to know. I shouldn’t know the definition of this vividly. I shouldn’t know how to describe every aspect of it in detail. I shouldn’t be able to explain to you the effects it leaves, emotionally and physically. I shouldn’t be able to sit here and write to you about what it feels like to feel like you were a mistake.

The feeling of emptiness is one which hits hard. Struggling to feel something is one of the hardest things to fight against. I hear news I know should evoke emotion but it feels more like life is just happening to me and I couldn’t care whether or not I was there.

Eight years old, I should not know these feelings. I shouldn’t know the urge to end my life when it has barely begun. I shouldn’t know the struggle of getting out of bed in the morning because I do not wish to move. I shouldn’t know the feeling of safety and warmth you get when you sit down in the shower for hours, breaking down and having your tears be drowned out by the sound of the running water. I was eight years old. A child. One who should still have the safety and security from the idea of my parents. Instead their image fills me with fear. The idea of having to go home and face them makes me shake as my throat feels as if it is closing up while my palms get sweatier.

He told me to be quiet,

Said I could never tell.

I swear he didn’t hurt me,

I swear to you I fell.

He didn’t give me bruises

He didn’t chase me either

(at least not very far)

I swear he hasn’t hurt me

I swear to you I fell.

If you want a different story,

I swear I will not tell.

He told me to be quiet

He told me not to cry,

He told me not to scream

Although I don’t know why

But then he pulled a gun

And put it to my head

He told me to remove my clothes

And I did what he said,

I’ve stayed quiet to this day

I won’t tell anyone

I’ll keep it all inside

’Til the memory fades to none

I want him gone,

I want him out.

I told my mommy

“Try not to pout”

“He’s not too bad”

He’s not too great

“please , Oh please

Just appreciate”

I shot him once and then I shot her too.

However,

Just because they’re gone,

Doesn’t mean the pain left too.

There were times when they would beat me

And hit me with a shoe

I wept and cried

All through the night

They never tried

To make it right

SHOWERS

Sometimes you don’t take a shower to get clean. Sometimes people don’t use showers as a way to “freshen” up themselves. They provide comfort. They’re an escape.

I end up taking multiple showers a day, not because I want to, but because I feel like I need to. I need that escape. I need to have the feeling of comfort I only receive from the scorching hot water stinging my back. I need to have the sound of the water hitting my skin and the shower floor drowning out the sounds in my mind. I need to focus on individual water droplets racing down the side of the wall to the floor. God, I could spend hours and hours just tracing each droplet, watching them race with the others and wondering which one would reach the floor first. It feels exhausting having to just stand there so I end up sitting most of the time. I just feel myself sink to the floor and let the shower happen to me.

It’s everyone’s most vulnerable state. Showers. You’re completely naked. Defenseless. Someone could come in and there’s nothing you could do about it. You’d be completely exposed. Someone could come in to kill you. Or maybe just to hurt you. There could be an introducer. But what could you do? Nothing. You’d be completely oblivious to anything happening around you. That’s why they’re dangerous. Showers are dangerous.

When you reach the point of showers becoming dangerous is when everything starts to slip away. My personal hygiene started failing. Showers no longer felt safe, so I no longer wanted to go in them. I’d lock the door and let the water run while I stayed outside and listened for footsteps, praying nobody would catch me. I didn’t want to be in there anymore. It was no longer my escape. It was no longer my happy place.

He once got me when I was in the shower. He showed up at my most vulnerable. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do so I just let it happen. He came into the bathroom without warning and opened the shower curtain. There are times where I can still feel his hands gripping my body as the water just kept on stinging me. I was confused at first, and quite frankly I still am. I don’t know what would cause a grown man to do that to a child. His own child. Why was this happening? What did I do?

A million thoughts whirled through my head as he took a step closer to me. I tried to cover my body but it was no use. What could I do? Where could I go? The answer is nothing and nowhere. I’ve never felt so helpless. I keep wanting to scream out and make it stop but I was just paralyzed with fear.

Sometimes I can imagine his hands touching me. The flashbacks seem too real that it can send me into a state of panic. Everything comes flooding back into my mind. Every fragile touch of his hand slipping down my body. Every teardrop going down my face. Every water droplet from the shower hitting my skin. Every unwanted stroke as he violated me and went deeper and deeper inside my untouched and pure, eight year old body. I can still feel the pain of my vagina stretching more than it ever should at this age. I can feel myself being violated all over again. It happens each time I go back into the shower. It happens each time I feel rainwater hit my body.

So when people wonder why my “showers” are faster than most, it is because I cannot bear to be in there for more than a minute. I rush to clean myself as fast as I can so I can get out of there. Or sometimes I don’t even shower. Even if I’m dirty, I’m more clean than the feeling of him inside of me.

THE ART OF CUTTING

Feeling a blade slice through my skin is the most enticing pain I’ve ever endured. It’s like for the first time I’m the one in control of my body and I’m the one deciding what pain is inflicted upon me.

Nothing brings me more joy than getting to drown out the pain you’ve caused, with pain I’m inflicting. Your image leaves my mind as soon as I see them crimson red blood drip out of me and slowly fall down my body and unto the bathroom floor. The memories of your touch fade out as the feel of the warm blood pools over me. For once I’m finally in control. For once you’re not the one hurting me. Maybe it’s not the healthiest way to deal with you, but it’s definitely the most effective.

The first time I did it was an accident. Every time after that, though, was on purpose. I’d constantly try and put myself in situations that could end in harm, even if they were at the fault of other people. I’d stand in an inconvenient place and I’d just happen to “accidentally” get hurt. Of course whoever hurt me would feel bad but I’d always shake it off and play it as if it was no big deal, because to me it wasn’t a big deal. It was pure happiness. Nothing brought me more joy than seeing my own blood pool out of me uncontrollably. Nothing felt more enticing than the feeling of a blade of some sort slicing deeper inside of my skin. Nothing felt more like “home” than the cold feel of a knife. Nothing felt safer than hurting myself as badly as you hurt me.

How is that normal?

It’s not. I know it’s not. But I just can’t stop myself. It’s like a drug, and you’ve played a part in my addiction. You know, I don’t even cry anymore when I do it. I just let the pain happen, I just let everything happen while I sit there and take it. You taught me how to stay silent, so silent I’ve stayed.

My mouth stays quiet and I refuse to make a sound as I sit down on the cold bathroom floor slicing open my skin, just trying to feel something. The smell of bleach stings my nose the second I breathe it in. The entire bathroom ends up needing to be cleaned each night because how else am I supposed to get rid of the blood stained tiles that were once pearly white? HOW DAD? How am I supposed to stop the tears from streaming down my face? How am I supposed to stop feeling this pain when I’m causing it? How am I supposed to keep drowning out the pain you’ve caused with the pain I’m causing?

There is no right or wrong answer. Or if there is then I guess I’m too dumb and broken to realise it. Maybe I’ll never be able to stop. Maybe I don’t want to stop. Maybe I like it, or maybe I’m just telling myself I like it because this type of pain is easier to deal with.

It’s not that I want to die. I don’t cut for the hope of death, I do it for the hope of life. Nothing makes me feel more alive, and more at peace, than the idea of being so close to the edge of death but living anyway.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Sometimes I do want to die. Sometimes I don’t want to stop cutting. But I’m too scared. I’m too scared to go through with it and I don’t know why. I feel like I don’t even know what I’m really feeling. Ironic, isn’t it?

The only thing I’m sure of is that I can’t stop myself from almost killing myself. I hate that I can write that sentence so nonchalauntly. But, hey, what am I supposed to do? I know I should try to get better and I know I should try to get help but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

How am I supposed to stop when the pain feels too good? How?

I can’t.

The pain is just too enjoyable.

JUST AS BAD

Sitting there and letting it happen. Ignoring it all together. Choosing to not believe your daughter. Denial. Silence. All of that makes you just as bad as him. You knew it was happening and still you said nothing. You watched the way he treated me and you still stayed with him. Why don’t I matter, mommy? Why would you stay with a man like that? I may not know the answers to these questions but I do know that you are just as bad as he is.

You should have stopped it, mommy. You’re supposed to keep me safe. You let daddy take away something you told me was always special. For years I believed everything you said about him being a good man. I believed that since he’s such a good man who loves me so much, then maybe this is what fathers did with their daughters. Maybe that was normal. But it’s not. And now that I know that, you’re just as bad as he is. Maybe even worse.

THE AFTERMATH

Even after you’re gone I still have to deal with the effects. You’ve ruined me. The worst part is, I didn’t even know you were ruining me as you did it. Now, I know what you’ve done. Now, I have to fully deal with it. You left an eight year old to try and cope with something she didn’t understand. As the years progress it just gets worse and worse. There is no getting better. Time continues to pass me by and more memories seem to flood back into my mind with each year, memories I don’t recall ever happening. It’s as if you find new ways of ruining me as time goes on. I can’t be at peace. I just wish these painful images would escape my mind but instead they consume my body and leave me paralyzed and numb. I could be doing my homework and suddenly your image will fill my head. It happens at random times in which I cannot control no matter how hard I try. I keep fighting but at what point should I just stop fighting? How do I know when to give up and give in? I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to decipher these emotions. I still can’t seem to figure out if pushing to escape them is just unhealthy denial or if it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore and it’s all your fault. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I just can’t seem to escape you.

I can’t seem to forget the feel of you touching me. Even when it’s not you who is touching me, there are still certain places that once a hand touches, your image comes flooding back. Every painful thing you ever put me through rushes into my mind. I want to scream out but you always made me stay silent and because of that I lie there silent with only your image coming to mind as I scream in my mind, begging you to stop even though you are nowhere near me. Because of you, I don’t know what it feels like to have someone make love to me. I only know what sex is. Because of you I can never seem to get close to anyone. I don’t long for a physical or emotional connection most people desire. Anytime someone gets too close to me, it reminds me of you and I push them away. You’ve ruined me. Even now as different boys touch my body, I still can’t seem to shake away the feeling of you forcing yourself inside of me. You violated me but still I haven’t known love since you. I end up faking emotions to significant others. I fake orgasms hoping it’ll make him stop sooner. He gets satisfaction and I just try my hardest to not break down.

THE HEALING PROCESS

It never happened.

THE PSYCHIATRIST

Adults are always the worst in tough situations regarding children. They never know what to do. A lot of times they make the wrong decisions because they “legally” have to but they don’t understand it’s effect. They try to make you talk things through. They try and “get inside your head” but they don’t care about doing a good job, they just care about getting the job done. To them, it doesn’t matter if the job is done correctly or not they just care about completing it. Adults do the bare minimum. Adults make things worse. Once adults are involved, everything starts falling apart. They force everything out of you that you aren’t ready or willing to talk about. Sometimes you just have to wait until a child is ready to speak, you can’t force it out of them like word vomit because then they feel attacked and no longer feel safe.

There’s lots of different adults you can talk to about bad things. They have them available inside and outside of school. School “helpers” are the absolute worst. Counselors, psychologists, and psychiatrists, when affiliated with the school, always do more harm than good. There’s regulations they need to follow, regulations that prevent kids from wanting to talk to them. Nothing stays private. Why open up to someone about a bad home situation if all they are going to do is call up a parent/guardian to tattle on you and all that you said? Why would I willingly want to speak of the troubles going through my mind to someone who is just going to get me in trouble for it? They think they’re helping. They’re not helping.

No matter how many times you try and explain it to them they just don’t understand. There are things that just can’t be shared. Not every adult thinks the way they do.

Sometimes parents just won’t understand. Some parents see depression as attention seeking. It’s another reason to yell at their kid. Some parents will get mad for their child confiding in a social worker. Some parents will use that as an excuse to punish their child more.

It doesn’t help. Adults don’t help. Adults make everything worse.

There are reasons that not many kids willingly seek out help. There are reasons that kids will lie to those authority figures straight through their teeth. I know I would.

Why would I admit to something that would get me in more trouble? I wouldn’t. I’d lie because you can’t prove what’s going on inside of my mind. I can lie all I want, you wouldn’t know the difference.

Other kids go through the same stuff. My generation has higher numbers of recorded mental illness. We struggle more with depression and suicidal thoughts. Most kids struggle with the same thoughts but they never go seek out help. We confide in friends. We don’t confide in adults. Adults don’t have our trust. Trust is something that is earned and has to be proven, so there’s no reason for us to want to go to someone who we know will break that trust. Confidentiality isn’t so confidential. Adults tell other adults. They can’t keep anything a secret.

“You get bad ideas from all of those TV shows you watch”. No mom. Those TV shows just help put down into words the thoughts I can’t explain.

“You’d be better if you weren’t always on that damn phone!” No dad. My phone is the only connection to people who care about me and make me want to be here.

“You’re just an attention seeker”. No mom. I’m just struggling.

“We have to inform a legal parent or guardian about our meeting”. No Mrs. Buchanan. You’re going to make it worse.

There are some adults who will just never understand. Parents are sometimes the stressor and if you call them out on it, you’ve just made things worse for the child. Adults can unintentionally cause more harm to the child than good, when they try to help they just make it worse but I don’t think they really care about the child. I think they care more about doing their job and getting it done.