I Became Her

Chapter 1 -The Beginning-

I walk into my room and close the door behind me. My shoulders slump as I let my body slide to the floor with my back pressed against the door. My arms wrap around my knees and there, in the privacy of my room, I finally cry. I let out everything I’ve been piling inside of me. All the sorrow, all the pain, all the grief.

She was my rock, my best friend and my everything. She was my mother.

How can I go on without her? How does one 16-year-old girl live on after losing her everything? I have so much pain and resentment in me that I am not even sure where it all fits. I want to break things, break things that can never fulfill the hole her death left in my life. I want to break myself and follow her, to be by her side and steal a few more precious moments with her. Moments that would mean the world to me, even if they would be the last things I ever do.

I hug my knees tighter and cry heavier than ever before because the hole in my heart is bleeding with vengeance.

Minutes and hours pass, but tears keep flowing. The painful squeeze on my heart still present.

I hear things being thrown and broken on the other side of my door. So, he has woken up from his alcohol coma and does what he has been doing every woken moment after he received the world-shattering phone call that turned our lives upside down.

Another round of sobs bubble to the surface and I am not trying to hold them inside, not anymore. I was acting strong for a week, took all the condolences and pitiful looks like a daughter who lost her mother should. But no more.

Here, alone, I can crumble. I can pretend she will come home and kiss my forehead like she has done for years. I can pretend she will ask me if I want to have a late-night snack with her. I can pretend she will ask me about my day as we eat sweets when we shouldn’t. I can pretend I am not motherless. I can pretend I have her love for as long as I live. I want to pretend all of that.

I see streetlamps turn on as the sun sets and darkness falls over the streets like it did over my life. Slowly, I peel my body from the floor and drag it to the bathroom.

I don’t even recognize the girl looking back at me. Eyes are swollen and red, skin is pale and blotched. Who is she? Where is the girl who looked back at me a week ago? Where is the spark I used to have in my eyes? Will it ever return, or did she take it with her as a guide to shine a light in the darkness she went? No. She wouldn’t take it, nor would she be in the darkness. She would be the brightest star in the sky and shine her light on all of us. On all of us lost in the cruel world of shadows.

If I knew for sure that I would meet her again, when my life came to an end, I would end it. I would end it here and now. That’s how much I need her, how much I miss her and how I cannot see myself live on without her.

Unfortunately, I don’t know that. But I know that she would scold me for having such grim thoughts. She would want me to keep going, keep living and making her proud. But how am I supposed to do that when all I want to do is perish.

I let my black dress drop to the floor, I remove my underwear and step into the shower. I turn the water on hot and stand under the stream of water until it burns my skin to the point it is unbearable and then I push the lever to the other side and feel how the cold water calms my burning skin until it burns just as much as the hot water did. I repeat the order several times until I don’t feel the change of temperatures anymore.

If there only was the same type of remedy to numb the pain I feel inside.

My father turned to alcohol and seems like it helps as long as you don’t stop. Because when you stop and the fog that alcohol brings over your senses fades, all the emotions come crawling back and each time with longer nails and more bloodthirsty than before.

I am not sure I can drink as much and as long to be able to numb everything. If there was a pill to cure grief and loneliness, I would take it without second thought. Nothing is worse, nothing can be compared to it.

Tonight, like all the others after the accident, I don’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I can see the car crashing through the window like I had been there. I can hear the screams and feel the panic my mother must have felt. Every time I close my eyes, I find myself there at the site even though I wasn’t anywhere near when she took her last breath.

I try to think about school, friends, and whatever pops into mind, but nothing can push the horrors out of my head and stop the merry-go-round of the accident replaying before my eyes. One round after another, it spins in my head until my alarm clock announces that a new day has begun. New day full of same sorrow and ache.

Getting up and ready for school used to be easy. I was a morning person, so I had no trouble waking up early and walking to school, which took me a good thirty minutes. Now I am lying in my bed and trying to convince myself of the importance of school and education. Just two more years. Just two more. After that, I can leave this house and this life. Maybe then I can start to heal and forget, start my life fresh and make my future without the constant reminders of the tragedy that ruined the end of my childhood.

People keep telling me that life goes on and she would want me to go on with my life, that she looks over me and holds my hand throughout everything. Then why don’t I feel it, feel her? Why can’t I feel her hand in mine? All these words mean nothing because they are all lies and fiction to make me feel better, but the truth is, nothing can make this better.

After I manage to make myself somewhat presentable, I walk out of my room and through the living room, where my dad is still blacked out from the night of drinking. I hate to see him like that, but I know he is dealing with her death the only way he knows. I am scared for him, but I don’t know how to help him when I am hurting just as much as he is. We are two torn souls who should support each other, but our cuts are too deep and fresh to offer a shoulder to someone else. So here we are, fighting for our sanity and piece of mind separately, and both failing miserably.

I pick up empty bottles from the floor and dispose them. Same routine I have been doing for the past week. Every morning I pick them up and every day he empties new ones. I just hope that one day he stops and finds a way to deal with his grief some other way. Something less destructive, so I don’t have to bury him as well.

Walking to school takes longer now 'cause placing one foot in front of the other seems harder than it used to. Lifting my heavy legs takes strength I don’t have too much left.

I keep my eyes down and try to avoid all the looks people give me while passing. I know they feel sorry for me, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see their watery eyes or to feel their reassuring pats on my back. I want them to move on so I can stop feeling like I am broken and in need of their comfort.

I spend my day in a haze and lesson after lesson I can see their mouths moving, hands gesturing, yet not a single word reaches me.

My friend Yasmine is trying to break down the wall I have built around myself and keeps asking questions, telling stories, and nudging me. I want to answer her and laugh with her. Fool around with her and gossip just like we used to. But the fog in my head is ever present and I can’t understand a word she is saying.

She has been my best friend since elementary school. Over the years, we have developed this unbreakable bond that ties us tighter together with each passing year. From just a look, we can tell what the other is thinking, from a faint nudge we know where to look and our lame jokes make us laugh like there is no tomorrow.

I hope she won’t give up on me and waits for me to return.

Another week passes and it is all the same. The same pain and disorientation.

I have been to the councillor’s office several times because I have failed every test and missed all the due dates. I know he wants to help. They all do. It’s me who can’t move on.

--

After two months, I finally see brightness returning. Small rays of light shine through the cracks in the walls surrounding me. Is that what healing feels like? I can spend hours without crying, days without breaking down. I can participate in conversations and laugh with others. Almost like nothing happened, almost.

From the outside, it looks like I am doing fine and coping with the immense loss. Like I am moving on and starting to get my life back on track.

But the truth is far from it.

Yes, I can be social again, I can function like a teenager should. Yes, the hole in my heart is not bleeding anymore, it is still there, but it doesn’t control me. What controls me is my fear of losing another parent.

My dad hasn’t changed, well, his grief hasn’t. The type of alcohol he uses to numb himself has. This week’s choice is vodka and the smell of it is suffocating. About a month ago, he lost his job due to drinking and now he has all the time in the world to drink himself into oblivion.

I haven’t spoken with him for weeks. I clean and cook for him, but haven’t seen him in a clear state of mind for so long I start to forget how to be his daughter. I feel like his housekeeper, if anything.

Every time I walk into the house and hear him snoring, this heavy weight lifts from my shoulders. The weight being the fear of finding him dead. Finding him gone and having to start my healing process from the very bottom again.

I am not ready for that. Probably never will be.