unseen scars, untold stories

Well, is it the first time you hear of a 7-year-old girl from a normal, small, happy family who slept praying to the devil to take her away — during the night when she prayed to God to make her next day sway?

It was the first time in my life I went to sleep praying I should not wake up tomorrow, hoping the devil would listen because that’s what he simply does, right? Loves when people want death? Exactly what they teach us:

STAY AWAY FROM THE DEVIL!!!

HE IS A BAD POISON!! GOD LOCKED HIM UP IN HELL BECAUSE IT IS FOR PEOPLE AS BAD AS HIM!!

But is he truly that bad? Or something that was formed to make us fear something happening?

Maybe he was just one of God’s angels sent to do the most critical work — punish his beings?

But well, I started hating even him when I woke up the next day.

It was a Monday of a school week.

Simple Monday for everyone.

But a terrible Monday for me.

That’s when I realized he doesn’t take lives until told so by God himself because if he did, I wouldn’t be in the kitchen getting the idea to cut myself while filling my water bottle and grabbing my lunch — which was packed as usual, and I picked it up with no intention to eat, but I had to.

I am a different being out in the world and in my personal 1AM talks I had with myself — not about homework (something many would predict) but about my life and my death.

Who would be sad? Who would just cry for one day and move on?

And the conclusion? Well, it used to be me:

“PROBABLY NO ONE. JUST GO TO SLEEP, DUMBO.”

And I did . . . . . . . . .

Try.

BUT I FAILED . . . .

It wasn’t sharp enough to cut through my skin.

Did get sad, but went to school anyway because it was another hell in the house.

Not home but house.

Now you might be confused why a 7-year-old doesn’t consider it her “home.”

Well, home is where you feel yourself, but house is just a roof over your head — and that’s exactly what it was.

Just a roof.

A home is where you can be yourself, not someone people expect you to be.

But here I was, a silly, not-so-good-at-academics cheerful child of the family everybody “loved” but never knew.

And after all these years — now I am 18 — I still can’t feel much.

Yes, I cry.

Yes, I feel sad.

Yes, I feel happy.

Yes, I smile.

Yes, I am still considered the most cheerful person around here.

But am I truly her?

No. I am not.

I am just a person who feels emotions for at least an hour, then gets back to my numb self or picks up one of the emotions I want to put on my face and just be like that.

And smile.

Is one of them.

I may not be that 7-year-old girl anymore, but I am still the same as she was as a kid.

Something no kid wants to feel at the age of 7.

Something no parent wants for their child.

Mine also didn’t . . . . . .

But they didn’t make me stop feeling it.

Today, as for now,

I am in this deep sinkhole drowning myself in only memories I can remember or am left to remember.

Didn’t feel myself. Never did.

Neither as a kid, nor as an adult.

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And by writing this book, I don’t want to tell you about me.

I just want to feel something.

Some remorse for all I put her through.

She didn’t deserve all that.

What she deserved was playing with Barbies, making scenarios —