“When your own mind plots against you, you have bigger problem than being labeled as ‘different’.” – Unknown
It was normal for there to be constant noise in the attic above. The squirrels liked to play at night, rolling nuts back and forth across the expanse that was my ceiling. But today, there were other sounds joining these.
The floor in my closet creaked. And scratching could be heard in the walls. There were also sounds of a movie being played downstairs, but it was far to late in the night for anyone to be up.
All these together, can certainly be explained by a skeptical mind. But in the moment, I wasn’t able to think clearly, and assumed the worst. And that certainly didn’t help my paranoia.
Before all this, I had been reading. Trying to keep myself occupied while I waited out the storms of life. But reading wasn’t helping much. Nothing was. I wasn’t hungry, wasn’t tired, and wasn’t interested in anything.
I also had no one to talk to. So my thoughts remained within my own head, battering themselves against my scull in attempts to escape.
In exhaustion, I let my mind wander.
That’s when I heard the rain, tears shed for those who are unable to cry. Or at least, that’s what I had always told myself as a child. I took comfort in the weather, because it didn’t ignore me like humans did.
Like a father, the sun set a blanket of warmth upon my back. Like a mother, the moon watched over me in the night, protecting me from the demons of the nightmares. And like a close friend, the rain was there to cry with me in those darkest times. In loud weeping, their voice carried over the wind, bringing the lonely child a comforting lullaby.
No. The weather would never turn their backs on me. Not like people did.
But then why? Why didn’t the ones whom I am supposed to be like, reject me as their own? Why would everyone I have ever met take the time to say “You’re different.” as if I hadn’t heard that enough? And why would my own family choose to harm me, instead of shielding me from the pain?
It wasn’t until early teen years that my hatred broke loose. And all the agony I had stored up came smashing against those whom ignored me when I needed help.
In that moment, I no longer cared. And the words I spoke were far more powerful than I thought I had the strength to wield. No one could stand against me. And I was no longer the victim.
I was the monster.
Since that day, no one views me the same. They all know there is a darkness, and they are afraid. I can’t walk past without someone cowering. And while that may seem like something I should be proud of, I can’t help but resent it. I am not human, they say. And I am inclined to believe it.
When asked what I am most afraid of. My answer is always the same: Myself.
I barely have control. The only reason people aren’t hurt every day is because I have learned to shut off parts of my mind. Like a hall with many closets, only a few are opened at once to have the contents viewed.
Because of this, people assume I have memory problems. But I disagree; the memory is there, I simply don’t have that room open.
And at the end of the hall, there is one much larger room. Inside it, there are no boxes for this isn’t a normal storage room. That’s the room where I live. That’s where I go when I need a break.
The only problem with entering this room, is that there is no handle on the inside. So when I go in, I must wait until the Other Existence allows me to leave.
The Other, as I refer to him, is the raw embodiment of my pain. He guards my house while I sleep, protecting me. Much as the weather had done in my childhood.
But his ‘protection’ is flawed. Instead of watching by for something to go wrong, he will simply not allow a situation to take place. If he fears someone I call a friend is going to hurt me, he quickly hurts them first.
I would compare him to glass armor. Because he has been broken so many times, there is no place without a crack. So if someone comes near enough, the sharp glass will hurt them.
I hate this Other. For he is the reason people are afraid. The reason no one can accept me. But yet, I need him, don’t I?
How does one get rid of a monster, when the monster is a necessary part of one’s self?