Day 57: The feeling I never forget

The first time I ever felt things were when I was seven.

I was watching Phineas and Ferb when my mother came home. I turned off the TV and let my back fall into the curvature of the hammock in our house. My eyelids closed tightly. My limbs sit still. My mind, still active as ever, try to hamper every sign that can give away the fact that I’m not actually sleeping, otherwise I would be force to do hundreds of math problems.

My mom bought it. I could picture her right close to the hammock, her breath breezing on my skin. I tried to stop all thoughts and movement, to set my facial expression still. I could see how she was about to wake me up, but stopped midway and walked out the room. My dad came home. I could heard the distinct sound of his new motorcycle pulling up in front of our bronze gate. I tried to force myself to sleep, but I couldn’t.

I certainly knew their routines at this point. They would sit and eat dinner together. My dad would go take a shower and go on his TV marathon each night. Occasionally, he would sit at the well-lit table and go through piles of paper, of which I could only assume was exams he had to grade. My mom would do the dishes, clean up and start a TV marathon of her own. But that day wasn’t like that. They did sit. They did eat dinner together. But they weren’t peacefully sticking their eyes into two different TVs in two different room. They stuck their eyes into each other, and not the kind you see in romantic movies.

They had a fight.

They wanted a divorce.

That’s technically wrong. My mother wanted a divorce.

Well, apparently, my parents are still together, and there’s a reason for it.

I was.

My mom said, as I translate here: “If it weren’t for [me], I would already have walked away.”

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To clarify, my parents are not bad parents. I could tell they love me very much, and miss me very much, and care about me very much. The relationship between me and my parents needs work, but whose doesn’t? I don’t want you to think that I hate them, or they were horrible, or I suffered through a bad childhood like every psychopath in Criminal Minds. I may very well be a psychopath, but it’s definitely not because of my childhood.

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I felt it right then. The immense, incredible sadness. I was a boy, and in my mind, I thought that, maybe if I didn’t exist, my parents would be happier. They would be able to do whatever they wanted. I felt an empty void of existence, and in that very moment, my feeling breaks apart like little piece of ice cream melting off on a summer day. I felt like, really, I hated myself, that nobody wanted me.

I just cringed when I finished writing that sentence. It sounded dramatic, didn’t it? I mean, what’s the big deal right?

I did get over it, that one instance. But I never got over that feeling of immense emptiness, the self-hatred and insecurities that I felt at the moment.

It’s the feeling I never forget.

There are misconceptions about these things, these feelings, that they all stemmed from a particular event. That’s why all the “Get over it” comments come from. It’s like a car hit a bump and crash and there’s a huge dent on it, and you just keep complaining about it even though you could just get it fixed. It’s not like that, though. It’s nothing like that. I mean, will I get sad if I fail a test? Sure. But will I feel like a failure my whole life if I only fail a test? No. For something to be felt that persistently, it has to happen persistently, to a point, where that feelings are entrenched into your brain.

Until it’s something I never forget.

Everyone is cruel, just they don’t know how cruel they are. Some are more cruel than others, but everyone is cruel. I felt the dark abyss deep into my heart that it felt like my heart sinks sometimes. It just becomes heavier and heavier, and at some point, you wonder, how low can this actually go? How low before I can go and say “Fuck everything and everyone” and just start not caring about a single thing? How many bullying jerks does it takes to destroy someone? How many innocent laugh and ignorant comments does it take for someone to come home and smash the mirror to avoid seeing himself every fucking day? How many people do you have to lose until you start losing yourself?

Helplessness.

Hatred.

Insecurities.

Unworthiness.

Grief.

Anger.

Darkness.

I can’t describe how I felt every time I encountered that feeling, the same feeling when I thought my parents did not want me, the feeling when Jessie disappeared, the feeling when Danny shut down my hope, the feeling when the whole school belittle my emotions, the feeling when betrayals after betrayals hit like high tides slapping into the rock. It might be a combination of everything above. I might not be anything at all. I just called it the immense sadness.

I felt it then.

And I’m feeling it right now. As I’m writing this.

The worst part is sometimes you don’t know why, and that’s really the thing that pisses me off. No one bullies me now. No one makes me feel worthless. No one really hates me anymore. So why? Why do I feel this way?

The only thing for sure is I know that I feel this way. I know for sure when every windy afternoon and I look into the sky, my ears plugged, my eyes closed, my head nodded down under the hoodie and my lips murmuring to the sound of whatever’s playing, that very moment, I feel it. The Darkness.

It’s the feeling I never forget.

                                                                                                                                       Love,

                                                                                                                                       Denny