First Steps to Freedom

There’s times in life when people just want to crawl into a dark hole and die. When you just want to fade into the wall and watch as everything fixes itself without your presence. There’s nothing like being so scared to fight back, scared to move. Sometimes there’s a vice-like grip that surrounds your heart, makes it impossible to prevent what happens, and causes your insides to feel like ice.
I never knew what being frozen inside was like. Not until I was ten at least. After that, numb was the only thing I had. Every family has its problems. Maybe I was paranoid, you know, like when you think the whole world wants you dead, or completely broken. I have no clue. All I know is that it was a horrible feeling.
I guess I have always had a low self-esteem to think things like this, but I can’t help it. There are some things in this world that I feel I can control. My family isn’t one. It might sound like I’m doing this for attention, but I want to get out. I want to be free from all the yelling. I don’t want to go to school with bruises, not like I ever wanted it.
God, I still remember the night my mom snapped. My dad had just walked out, leaving me and my mum. He also left a fridge full of alcohol. The next day I had to say the some lie over and over.
It became a vicious cycle. I remember joining up for so many sports, trying to make friends, trying to find any excuse to get out of my house. In grade eight, I found a new way to relieve stress. Lock my door and hold a razorblade to my skin. The adrenaline was awesome, like nothing I’ve ever felt. It was a rush, like this was something that I could handle. As I got into high school, other habits came around. Smoking for one. I haven’t stopped yet. Then there was drinking. I stopped that when someone told me I was like my mother. I haven’t wanted a drink since. And there’s the infamous marijuana. It gave me more of a high than slicing my skin to ribbons.
No one knew of this of course. I never had people come over, I was ashamed of what family I had. I don’t think I ever really had friends either, just people who played sports with me. It didn’t matter, they would try to “help”. Otherwise known as telling someone and what’s left of my home apart. I guess it could have been worse. I’m still alive, but things don’t want to go my way.
I can’t help but get depressed when I remember the guy who once had my heart. He was a cop’s kid, I was a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Classic love story? Not likely. It was fine for about three months, then he decided to go to my house. My mom was drunk, and he never wanted to speak to me again. I can still remember yelling and throwing empty and full bottles of beer and coolers around the living room, trying to make a point. I have a scar on my hand where a piece of glass got stuck.
This wasn’t supposed to make you feel sorry for me. It was a letter to remind me of the good old days, before Mom invested in the gun. Right now, I’m writing because I know it’s all going to end tonight. All I ever wanted was a normal life. Maybe, if I’m lucky, the stupid therapist might visit my grave, and wish she had tried to understand instead of just mimicking me and making me feel smaller than an ant. That might be a little harsh, but right now, I couldn’t care less. Oh well.
You could call this my final good bye. I’m calling it my first steps to freedom.