Was I ever a happy child? Without thinking, my parents would definitely say I was, and then they’d go into a lengthy detail of describing my achievements.
“ She was such a competitive spirit. She was smart beyond her years”.
Was I ever a happy child?
I’m a good student sure. I ponder the abstract and understand without trying what most would perceive as unconceivable jargons. The same mind that does not conceal horror; That see the world without filters, without frills, without the protective lies that preserve one’s fragile sanity.
Was I a happy child?
Maybe in my own eccentric way I was. But I knew darkness in a way others do not. Because even while I laugh, I am aware of a spot in my heart that does not really fill up. A void that refuses to accept unadulterated glee.
I knew nothing about Depression as a child. I was shielded from the sharp edges the world so often wielded indiscriminately, — until I came face to face with the monsters.
Fear is protective, they say, until it misfires. Then it becomes an enemy. A shackle or a box beneath the ground. Limiting. Suffocating.
I was a happy child, at least up to the extent I knew how happiness should make one feel. I am now simply a grateful person, for what I have and what I am capable of giving in spite of my darkness.
I’ve seen the demons, therefore I understand. I’ve been alone, therefore I reach out. I’ve felt the all encompassing embrace of depression, the sharp cuts of hate, the racing thoughts of anxiety, and the ephemeral kiss of panic. I met some of the deadliest monsters a mind can ever create, and I made it out. I made it out.
No one who’d gone to battle comes back the same. I know I’ve never been the same since.
Are the changes blessings or curses?
To now have eyes that see too much, hearing that catches the scream of silence, skin that holds enough stories of its own, and a heart that simultaneously bond excessively and not at all. The middle ground had all but disappeared somewhere among the ruins of the past.
Was I a happy child?
I started on life probably happy I don’t know. Maybe, somewhere along the way, while I skip and danced under the bright afternoon sun, I fell, in a hole, unsuspecting, betrayed and wounded.
Dark holes don’t kill you immediately.
It corrupts you instead.
I got in happy, I emerged hollowed out and mutated, haunted by the dark. By ghosts. By my own mind.
I am good at imitating normalcy. I’m good at projecting acceptable behaviours. I made it out.
My mind, in spite of it being infested by sadness and fear, is better than most. I understand abstracts. I am abstract. I see the relationships of invisible congruence and oppositions. I see the unseen. I am more than functional. I exceed expectations. Intelligence is as protective as invisibility, — or morality.
Am I happy?
I guess in my own way I am. My wounds are now but scars, and the darkness in my past allows me to appreciate the stars. The flickers. The dying ember.
Why do I seek the broken?
Because it’s my way of putting myself back together, — one broken soul at a time.