I deteriorated in silence and grieved within the confines of my mind.
As a child, I grew accustomed to hiding my pain. Whether if it was physical or emotional, there wasn’t an outlet available to show how the unhappiness my parents granted me distorted my personality. I had no help. No shoulder to lean upon for advice. However dire the circumstances, I wasn’t permitted to hold the hand of another regardless if they were family or friend. I couldn’t ask for assistance because my father declared requiring the aid of others meant I harbored a weakness. I was forced to perform solely based on my own merits throughout every struggle.
For years, I managed to survive on this singular practice. I coped with every adversity thrown at me and continued
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I attempted within my capabilities and entrusted my willpower into everything I was taught to surpass this ordeal.
But I retreated into the sanctuary of my mind and remained there with my questions of what ifs, creating various scenarios perhaps in hopes of it all resulting in a different or better way. Nothing I came up with was of substance and there was no method in preventing the damage from forming fissures inside my head. Not even with my parents did I wholly succumb to the futile disappointments. I hid away. I was beyond reach and slowly broke while waiting for the last fragment to shatter everything that I was and
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My usual tendencies leans towards solving it by myself but I know this time—it won’t work. There’s no possible means to bear this anguish all on my own because I’ll land right back at the start. I’ll be far worse off than when I first began.
It’s why I asked for help.
Because I deserve more than my parent’s vile contempt. I deserve to believe I’m good enough for those around me. And I deserve happiness and contentment just as much as any other person on the planet.
“Are you sure?” Soi stares at me with doe-like eyes. Bright and brimming with curiosity.
With a small brush in her hand, she cranes her neck left to right with her lips anchoring at one corner to the next. Her sight burrows into mine, traveling from the ebony lines of my lashes all the way to the structure of my brow. She surveys every minute detail on how to proceed or if she wants to proceed. It’s a request she’s prompted me since we were in our teenage years: how she’ll be the first person ever allowed to touch my face with pigment and color.
I reply with a positive nod. “Yes.”
“I mean—are you really, really, truly sure?”
Again, I reflect the same adamancy. “Yes. I’m really, really, truly