It has been a while now since I allowed you to feed me your beautifully made portion of lies, and the constant craving of your drug is slowly fading. But withdrawal brings with it another form of anxiety, a constant calling invitation to get lost in your maze of deception once again, and that calling frightens me insane.
I naively thought you would change, and you assumed that I would never leave. You were certain of the depth your poison had reached, and that someone like me could not quit. We were both wrong and I can now see you for what you really are, rather than who I want you to be.
Sweetheart, the only sweetness in your heart is in the taste of the blood that runs through it. But then I stop to ponder if your heart beats at all. I wonder if you feel the same pain that I do – when cut, do you bleed? When you close your eyes at night, do your dreams haunt you, or have you wiped your subconscious clean?
Baby, do you remember when we were good together? It was right before we walked hand in hand into a tunnel of self-destruction, making way for greed, jealousy, and mistrust. Were we even happy before that? Do you remember what it was like? Because I can’t seem to recall the touch, smell, or taste of your love.
I wish my words could engulf you and carry you back to me on an invisible throne. I wish you understood what my words meant, the meaning they carry and the pain they hide. I wish you could put my face in your hands and feel the words I want to convey rather than read them. I want you to look me in the eyes when you say you want to walk away from us.
The time has come for you to leave your cowardly ways behind, and you need to do it for yourself. Do not do it in hopes of getting me back. Because that ship has sailed, and now rests on the ocean floor.
/ Former Yours Always
I have often wondered what a reflection of myself would look like through the eyes of other people. To my dismay, it is still not possible for mankind to leave their physical body and observe life from a more divine place. Imagine how phenomenal it would be to see your silhouette live your life, only this time your silhouette has a face. Do not imagine for a second that this scenario is at all similar to looking at yourself through a mirror. A mirror, for one, will not show you how stupid you look staring at your own reflection.
I started keeping a diary as soon as I learned how to write. At age seven I remember asking my mother to check the spelling of my diary entries. A few months later I realized that the contents of a diary should be kept secret. At age eleven all I wrote consisted of “I hate my mother, I hate my father, I FUCKING HATE MY SISTER!!” The list of people I hated at the age of eleven goes on, but that’s for another time.
When several years have passed from the writing date of an entry, my siblings and I tend to share them with each other. Today, and for the first time, I had the honor of witnessing the contents of my younger sister’s diary. It reads as follows:
” May 3, 2009
There are some things you don’t really know except if you deeply think about them; like what a big fat asshole Chirin could be. OMG I truly hate her sooo much! She loves showing off all the time. She thinks she is the best while in fact she is the worst. Either everything is the way she wants it or she stops the whole thing. She is very selfish and rude. If you unfortunately need her help, she makes you sufferuntil she decides to help or simply ignore which is more often. Like now I am sitting on my bed wanting her to explain me physics while she refuses. Mom tries to explain but fails cause obviously mom is stupid in physics. And in the morning there was something wrong with my facebook password so I asked for her help and she as usual refuses. She made me suffer 45 minutes until she came, shouted, and went back to TV. But then I fixed it alone without her fucking help.
Chirin = The following:
Asshole, idiot, whore, stripper, mean, stupid, nasty, slut, lowlife, garbage, and unnecessary… “
After a good five minutes’ laugh, I asked her what year this was dated, and she collapsed on the floor with laughter.
“Shit Chirin, I wrote this four years ago on your birthday.”
What can I say, it’s sister love.
I will no longer allow your power over me.
You will not make my decisions,
Or define the way I live.
I know what you’re like;
You would burn me and this world down,
If you could be master or better yet, king
Of the remaining ashes.
It’s time for someone to burn you
Down to utter nothingness.
And believe me when I say,
I am on my way,
Coming for you.
Ego first, head second.
I dare you now
Show me what is left
Of your powers.
Our war is not too different from the Wars of the Roses; we were once two halves of a whole. But when the ancient war was recorded in history, men forgot to mention the love the two families held for each other before it evolved into hate. I promise that I will never forget the immense love I had for you before darkness gained power over our bodies and souls. I will remember the times we shared, and I shall, no matter what we do to each other, cherish those memories. Always. I swear.
I know that the best of deeds does not lie in the worst of men, and therefore, I shield myself from you. The citadel walls I have managed to build around myself have failed to incarcerate my anger, and keep your hatred at bay. You fight me with all you have. Fire catapults, arrows, and stones you have launched at me, and occasionally, the wall cracks. I have rebuilt and regrouped far too many times.
You claim that I am an exotic flower begging to be plucked, and I tell you that by plucking the petals you will not gather my beauty, but rather, destroy me. When I look into the darkness of your deep eyes, and when I see that repulsively evil smirk on your lips, I know that your plan was to do so all along.
Our war did not begin yesterday, and it will certainly not end tomorrow. Our war is eternal, and I want to drown you in it. I will challenge you to swallow the sun, and while I watch you fail, thunderous trains of air will carry me to the moon.
I may not believe in war, but I believe in warriors, and I will therefore allow you to be the architect of your own disaster. On the battle field we turn into animals, slicing the strings to whom we once were in swift cuts. Watching our former beings float away and into thin air.
Lust is a powerful force, and It is the only force that keeps us together. Explaining our quantum sized love is like explaining the rainbow to a blind person. Our Botox hearts are no longer capable of such emotion. Instead, we lust for each other’s blood like we do our bodies.
We are fire and ice
And we will continue
To fight one another
Until the end
Of our time.
We have a connection,
The rain and I
A magical bond of sort
It plays my favorite lullaby
And quietly whispers into my ear:
“Slip back into your dreams, my love
You’ve got a long day ahead of you,
And I am going nowhere”
With the power of
Those soothing words,
I bid my sleeping body farewell,
And join the living realm
Of the sleeping dead.
My father has six children, which in most societies is considered quite a large number, but I did not grow up in a big family. My father’s ex wife got custody of my two eldest siblings (when they were both too young to have parents going through divorce), and growing up, they only visited us on vacations.
Shortly after, my parents got married and mother was big time pregnant on their first anniversary. Always wanting to be the first, I was brought into this world on a sunny spring day with high pollen levels in the Swedish air (hence, my allergies), and plenty of love from my parents.
I like to believe that the first three years of my life were the best days I ever saw or will ever see. Everything was so simple, so easy, and so mine. I was showered with attention, love, toys, and candy. I did not have to share a single thing with anybody. It was a piece of heaven – or so I’d like to think, given that I don’t remember a single day of it.
On March 20th, 1997 something terrible happened. My first baby sister had been born, and I was no longer queen. I now had to share my room with this crying creature, along with all my toys. As she grew bigger, my mother would dress her in my favorite clothes that I had grown out of, and even though I was the one who always got the new things, I could not kill my jealousy.
When we fought, my mother sided with her, and when we didn’t fight, my mom sided with her anyway. I will not accuse her of favoring my sister over me, because I now know that my mother would do no such thing, but try telling that to the seven year old version of myself.
I was favored by my father though, he took me to places, and taught me things that he didn’t teach her. Eventually, I turned into my father’s eldest son. Not that I became a Tomboy or anything, but he did treat me as a boy. Today, I am thankful for that, because I now do things that girls with my background can’t, or aren’t allowed to do. Nevertheless, my sister did not grow up to be the girly type either; and sometimes, she’s even tougher than I am, but that is way off topic.
Tom and Jerry are the modified version of my sister and I. We spent our entire childhood beating each other up, fighting over irrelevant things, and keeping almost everything from our parents. Just like Tom and Jerry, we loved each other, but preferred not to show it. Recently, I asked her to tell me about the worst physical pain I ever afflicted on her, and she said the following:
“About ten years ago, we had a fight over something that I can’t recall, and you hit me repeatedly on my back with one of our hard plastic crusader sword toys. You hit me so hard I went numb and felt paralyzed. When I could move again, I went to our parent’s room, lay face-down on the bed, and cried. Minutes later, you felt guilty, brought a wet sponge, and gently washed my red, swollen back.”
Personally, I don’t even remember that day specifically, but I do remember the few times when I did show her how much I cared.
The first time we traveled alone, my parents sent us to visit my grandmother, and the rest of the clan, who lived in the Middle East. I was eleven, and my sister was eight. The flight leaving Scandinavia was perfectly planned. A flight attendant took care of everything until we finally saw the familiar old face of my grandmother. She handed her our passports, and bid us good bye.
During our trip, we discovered a new bond. We took care of each other, laughed at the weird food together, and shared soda drinks in plastic bags. It was by far the nicest we had been to each other in a very long time, if not forever.
I will never forget our flight back home, three weeks later. It was the worst trip I have had in my life. I began to understand how huge the world was, and how I, the eleven year old, knew nothing of it. A mean man from the airport staff was supposed to help us all the way to the our seats on the plane, but instead, told us to sit down and wait for at the gate for a while, and disappeared with our passports. I believe that this man did not understand the meaning of “a while.” Two hours later, all the passengers had boarded the plane, and we were still waiting. Sometime around 2 a.m., my sister had cried herself to sleep in my lap out of hunger and fatigue, and there was nothing I could do for her. I felt so helpless, and so useless, not able to do anything for my beloved little sister.
Somehow, we managed to get home and into our comfortable beds in Gothenburg. Our trip had forced me to discover my protectiveness of her. I would never allow any kind of harm to come to her again, and I swore to myself that I would do anything to keep her safe.
A finished education, Tom & Jerry girls, and fourteen years after my birth, my parents decided to produce another batch of kids. Not that I have any right to question their decision, but I won’t stick around much longer to really care.
So today, I have three younger siblings, two of which look up to me and see me as their Superhero, and the one that is my closest friend. I never got to experience being a younger sibling, so I have no idea how they feel. My two older siblings and I got closer as we grew up – and today, I love them with all my heart. (Note: I hated them irrevocably when they would visit and my father would give them more attention than he would give me.) I know that if I were to need them someday, they will have my back; and if just for a millisecond, the knowledge of that allows me to relax.
After witnessing a fight between myself and my sister, a middle-child boy once told me:
“Don’t treat your sister the way my brother treated me. She will grow up to hate you.”
That day changed everything, as I discovered the complexity of the business of younger siblings. Family is like baking a cake from scratch; it takes time, and it is extremely messy. Think of that next time you want to beat up your younger (or older) siblings.
I thank God for my family and everything they have ever offered me and wish with all my heart that every single member lives a long, healthy, and perfect life.
PS. This is dedicated to my sister Jasmine, my stubbornly growing little flower.
They say that actions speak louder than words, but let me inform you that my mind speaks louder than the two combined. What I am telling you is no ordinary joke; my mind literally shouts at me all day. He tells me to do things and then blames me for them.
When he told me to kill my dog, I did not want to do it. Why would I want to kill my friend? Certainly you all blame me for giving in to his evil commands. But when he won’t shut up, I have no choice but to comply. He forces me do these horrible things against my better judgment, and it’s therefore not my fault that I am this way today.
But then again, at the end of the day, my mind is the only friend I’ve got, and the only other person who can hear me speak. As the rest of the world has chosen to remain immune to the sound waves I have been sending for the past two years, I am obliged to hold on to him.
Every night, before I go to bed, he asks me how my day went, if I’m alright, and if by any chance anyone could hear me speak. Now when I think of it, his questions are meaningless, because he’s been with me all day, but I sigh and repeat the same reply every night. “Today was just as boring as yesterday, I am fine, thank you for asking, and no, people still treat me like a mute.” Satisfied with the answer I have given him, he allows me to fall asleep quite quickly, and gets a few hours of rest himself.
Now you’re probably wondering why I refer to my mind as a he rather than an it, but all I can do for now, is assure you that I am not mad – at least not yet. I am not bantering when I tell you that there is indeed a male voice in my head; someone who sounds a lot like the bad guy in a Disney movie; an uninvited guest in La La Land (not that my masterpiece of a mind is La La Land, but that’s not the point.)
The doctors say I have something called selective mutism. In other words, I don’t speak because I choose not to. But of course I speak, you idiots, I speak all the time. You can’t hear me, and for that, you’re the deaf ones. Mental note – write a letter of complaint to whomever is in charge regarding people’s tendency to blame their disability on me.
However, I must admit, that two years ago when my father died a sudden death, I was too shocked to say goodbye. My papa left me unannounced, and ever since he did, people started to drift away, and the ones who stayed no longer heard me when I spoke.
Something quite fishy has been going on lately. When Bill (the evil man in my head) is asleep at night, some inner force me pushes me to remember the image of a caramel-colored man with curly black hair. He’s sitting on the black couch in my living room, holding a box of Cheerios in one hand, and a cigar in the other. He shouts at the players on the screen, and that is probably why he can’t hear me when I speak to him. I am certain that I know the man from somewhere, but I never get the chance to see his face, and every time I try, Bill wakes me up and starts the daily conversation. Every night it is the same image, the man on the couch. I do my utmost to protect him, but whether I am protecting him from Bill or myself, I am not quite certain.
I hear the doorbell ring, and Bill the villain tells me not to open. But for once, I decide to defy him and open the door anyway. The sight of the man from my dreams on my doorstep nearly takes my breath away. It confuses me to no end, but for a moment, I understand that I have friends on this lonely path. That sometimes who you are is not something you find, but rather something you have when you need it.
Without words, he holds me tight, and then whispers into my ear:
“Speak, my love; for I am here, and I promise you that it’s all going to be alright.”
With tears in my eyes, I quickly blurt out an “I love you” followed by two years worth of words.