Memories are nothing more than random bits of information processed at varies speeds. This is how I remember my childhood. It comes back to me in pieces as my head slams back into the ground. Lift and repeat. Lather, rinse, and dry. Blood runs throughout your body providing oxygen and nutrients to every cell. When blood gets into your eyes it provides nothing at all. Nothing more than pain. How does someone end up reliving all their horrible childhood memories on the cold pavement? I’m not really all that sure anymore.
Where did I go wrong? Politian’s, health-conscious assholes, leftist fascists would say it was when I smoked my first cigarette. Signed a one-way ticket to hell by today’s standards. God would I kill for one right now. Just to feel the smoke hit the back of my throat and shoot down into my lungs would make all of this a little bit more bearable. I wonder what heroin would be like in this scenario. I wonder what food will taste like as my teeth fall to the ground. Will anything ever taste the same again or will it always taste like blood? I don’t think the iron, rust like taste will never leave my mouth. I always speak my mind maybe that’s how I ended up here. The more my head hits the ground the more I forget. In the end all we have is our memories. The good ones and the bad ones. Our memories are all we have. For some reason, the only memory that keeps popping up is the time I learned to tie my shoes. Maybe because when all is said and down here. I’ll never be able to do that again. Funny how after all of this something so significant won’t even matter. Too defiant anyways. Never really learned to tie my shoes. Found a way, but not the way I was taught. The memory still comes breaking through.
My stepmother left me in a chair all day with the same story that I could get up if I tied them the dumbass way she showed me. With the bunny ears or something. The instructions are still lost on me, but the torture is clear. “If you tie your shoes we can go to the beach.” I used to love the beach. I used to love a lot of things. Too bad we were in the middle of fuck all Indiana where there is no such thing. She paraded around in a bathing suit and beach bag as if we would leave as soon as I miracle my shoes laces together. What kind of sick fuck does that to a child? The company you keep I guess. Too defiant maybe that is how I ended up where I am. Too strong-willed and stubborn to tie my shoes. To listen to anyone else.
My head hurts so much that my face has gone numb. I’ve been trying to pick myself up, but my head feels as though it weighs too much. Leaning into the punches is not helping any. I say lean but it is more of a sway. Confused by what it is I am even doing. I’ve got nothing left. Everything I had was all used up before I even got here. A teacher once told me that you come into this world with nothing and you leave it with nothing. I can see her old wrinkled out face mouthing the words, but the world has gone silent. Gone away into the distance that is my existence. She was full of shit. You come into this world screaming and you leave it with pain. The constant that doesn’t let you forget. Can’t change much when your life flashes.
Can’t change much when you know you are going to die. Can’t take away the things that you have done. Can’t forget the time that you pissed on the street corner as the neighbor’s daughter watched. Can’t take back the punishment. The belt that struck over and over again. Not even the truth can set you free after it is all said and done. That she wanted you too. No, you are only left with the memories of a childhood you wish you could forget. Can’t change the time you climbed a tree you were told not to climb. Ended up in the hospital for not listening on that one. Should have stayed in the tree. Why didn’t I just stay in the tree? Can’t change the time you got a girl pregnant and waited in the abortion clinic waiting room. Scarred out of your mind, sad for the life you wasted, and too young to realize they are one in the same. No, none of that will ever change. Time can’t change after it is already past. Time can’t change after you’re dead. Your impressions, actions stay with those you’ve affected long after your gone. Actions speak louder than words yet the words of those around you in circle your every thought.
Don’t do this, do that, why do you got to be such a little shit, clean up your room already, have you been drinking, this is for your own good, tell me what happened, happy birthday, please take the dog out, win some and you lose some, thou shall not kill, I hate you, why couldn’t you have been better, clean your face, you disgust me, this is what you deserve, I love you. Some good and some bad they all flood in as if they should mean something, but they don’t. Is now really the time to reflect on all of this? Maybe I just wanted freedom. Maybe it was only love. Maybe it was both. I don’t know what anyone could ever want out of a world like this.
For some reason, they have stopped. Could be because I’ve stopped fighting? Maybe because they know it is already done? I can feel a smile come across my face as the hits start back up. Their anger in this world somehow more intense than my own. I want to laugh, but do I dare? I can still feel as though that all of this is some kind of prize at the end of a long game. The words aren’t clear in my head anymore. Here and gone. Trapped and freed. I feel cold yet warm. But all I really feel is pain.
Broken Thoughts Vol 1: Between Me and You Now Available On Amazon
There is a line we do not cross Hop over it once and it’s all your fault Step over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between hearts and breaks Thin lines grow between us Keeping us apart yet very much the same There are lines we do not cross Reach over them once and it’s all your fault Fall over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between souls and life Thin lines grow within us Keeping us together yet very much the same
“What do you got there Sylvia?” An orderly asks. Her young frame hunched over an open notebook. She pretends to not hear the question. “Hey Sylvia,” he calls out once again. As the youngest patient in the asylum he isn’t used to her teenage attitude in this dark dingy place overcrowded with pain, neglect, and isolation. “Nothing, just something I have been working on to pass the time,” she answers. “Did you not hear me the first time?” He ask. “I heard you,” she says into her notebook. “Okay, well maybe sometime you could show me what you have been working on,” he smiles. She looks up at him, “Yeah maybe.” She buries her head back into her notebook. The orderly shakes his head and walks over to the other side of the room to talk to the other patients in the recreation room. “So what are you working on Harold?” She hears him ask the only other patient not drugged out of their mind. She picks up her pen.
I’m so depressed here. I wish I never “volunteered” to be admitted. Should have just run away again or finished what I started. I’ve been rubbing the scars again. No one would listen to me outside of this walls or inside them. I should have known he would have sent me to a place that wouldn’t listen. This place is like school. “Sylvia stop your lying.” Maybe I’m not lying. Maybe you aren’t listening. The deep jagged cuts down my arm don’t help me to forget. The pain is long gone from the last time, but somehow still linger in my mind. Thought maybe if I wasn’t pretty anymore. Wasn’t perfect then maybe. It doesn’t matter what I thought. How many times am I going to tell myself the same thing? How many times am I going to justify trying to kill myself? No one cares why it happened as long as it isn’t happening. I’m safer here than at home. That’s what is important. As long as I keep my volunteer status he can’t hurt me. As long as I am here I am safe. The reason doesn’t matter anymore. No one is going to stop him, but at least I did.
The orderly makes his way back over to her. His footsteps echo within the room. She closes up her notebook, “Yes Charles?” He checks his watch, “I’ve been reminded to remind you that your next appointment is in a five minutes.” She rolls her eyes, “Funny how that seems to be the case every week.” He smiles and pretends that her attitude isn’t bothering him. A talent he learned from his two girls at home. “It is quite odd. Might have to do something about that,” he jokes. “Them doing anything here would be a first,” she says as she gets up from her chair and walks away.
The door to the doctor’s office is open slightly as she knocks on the door. “Come in. How are we doing today Sylvia?” The doctor asks as he looks at a chart that isn’t even hers. “Fine, I guess. Same as always,” she mocks. “You know you can leave whenever you want? Maybe go back home and spend some time with your family. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He asks without looking at her once. “I’m sure they miss me immensely. At least that is what they would want you to believe, but I’m certain I am just fine right here,” she looks down at her scars once again. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll make a call to your parents and tell them you are ready to go home,” he says. “I didn’t say that at all,” she says. “I just want to tell you Sarah we made some real progress in the time that you have been here,” the doctor rattles off. “My name is Sylvia,” she says in anger. “Yes, I am aware and I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to write you a script for some mood suppressors. You don’t have to take them, but if you feel all the anxiety coming back on I want you to feel safe,” the doctor says. “I feel safe here. I want to stay here,” She tries to reason. “Change is good for you. You have been here too long. It’s time for you to go home. I know your father misses you every much. I have been keeping him updated and he seems as optimistic as I am about your recovery,” he looks up from his chart. “So go ahead and get your things ready for tomorrow. That seems like a perfect place to end today,” he gives off a weak smile. Sylvia begins to cry. The tears falling from her eyes to her arms and running along her scars, “I don’t want to go.” The nurse comes in and places a hand on her shoulder. “Nurse remind me that I need to call her parents in a bit and if you could have Charles bring in the next patient that would be wonderful,” the doctor asks. “Yes, sir. Come on Sylvia let’s get you back to your room,” the nurse says to her. “But I don’t want to go,” she begins to sob. “I know dear. I know,” the nurse says as she rubs her shoulder. The doctor goes back to his file as the nurse escorts Sylvia from the room.
“There she is,” Charles calls out as he walks by her open door. “Glad to see you writing again,” he says to her. She doesn’t respond to him as she sits still at her desk. Memories flooding her mind. “Wanted to check in on you. Heard you were pretty upset earlier,” he says to more silence. “Also heard you were going home tomorrow too. That is good news,” he tries to sound excited. “Mind If I take a look at what you are writing? I understand if you don’t feel like talking,” Charles suggest. “Very much so. It is private,” she snaps at him. “I see you are excited about leaving tomorrow,” he snaps back. “Maybe even sooner,” she says under her breath. “What?” Charles asks concerned. “I said I want you to leave. Did you not hear me the first time,” Sylvia screams at him with tears in her eyes. “I just want you to know that I am here if you need to talk,” Charles says in a caring voice before walking out of the room. Sylvia quickly gets up from her chair and slams the door behind him. Only doors don’t slam here. She pushes all her weight against the door to try and get it to close faster. Tears streaming down her face as she struggles. Despite living in the same room for the past six months her room is nearly bare. A bed, a dresser, and a desk. “Her desk,” she thinks to herself. Her father’s money was at least good for something in this place. A private room and her own desk, but they wouldn’t let her have her pens. Not after what happened. They gave her special hospital pens, but only after she had developed trust. She couldn’t do much of anything with those useless things any way. She calms down enough to return to her desk and flips open the note book to where she left off.
There is a silence It is a constant There is a sadness It is a constant There are so many things And they are all constant I can taste the blood on the page I can feel the sweat on the page I can see the tears on the page As each drop becomes the page Why doesn’t anyone understand
Sylvia tosses the note book as hard as she can. It bursts open as it smashes against the wall. Papers, words, time falls to the floor. She begins to sob at the thought of the words, “I know your father misses you very much.” Visions of the past fill her mind. Remembering the pain. Remembering the fear of it all. Remembering that no one would listen. No one cared. “How could you ever say a thing like that about your father,” her mother’s words echo in her mind. Only to be replaced by the memory of his touch and his words. “You are so beautiful. My perfect little angel,” his words like poison slipping into her mind. You are confused at first. Why now? Why this? So you fight it the best you can, but the fight becomes useless. The whole thing becomes normal. A daily routine that you can’t wash away from your mind. The thought becomes clear. If I’m no longer perfect then it will stop. The memory of the pain from before washes over her once again. Make myself imperfect. Make it go away. The blood drips on the floor. It stains the carpet, but they clean it and they move on. It never stops the abuse. The monster doesn’t care if you are perfect. The monster doesn’t care at all. Deeper you dig. Deeper you find yourself in pain. Deeper until you think that it is over. Until you find yourself here and know that it is. Sylvia reaches under her desk to grab the item hidden beneath. When she got here she was hopeful that it would never have to be used again, but deep down she knew someday she would need a way out. She holds the jagged piece of mental in her hands. “We don’t even know what she cut herself on,” he mother told the hospital. Squeezing all her anger and the pain into it. “Here we go again,” she thinks. “A conclusion I can no longer hide away from.” She holds the broken piece of metal in her hand. She gently places it on her desk and opens her last remaining note book.
“When we bleed it is only to cleanse our souls. It’s like letting the air out of the tires every now and then. Sometimes it hurts more than others, but the hurt never compares to the pain. The hurt feels good in a way. The pain doesn’t. I wish someone would have listened to me. Anyone at this point. I wish I could explain the pain that I am in, but for some reason, I can’t. It could be the lack of blood still left within me or my ever lack of words associated with the pain. Pain is nothing like the hurt. The hurt comes and goes, but the pain. The pain is always there. Every once in a while I found myself here in this place. This dark hole surround by all the pain I don’t understand. This place of self-loathing and hate. I control my own destiny, right? Or have I just misheard some well-placed advice? Maybe I don’t control anything since no matter my choices I always end up here. I always end up with this pain. No one cares, but everyone’s still listening. I know it is not my fault and maybe it still is. Should have never. Should have done things differently. This has to be for the best. Nothing else left to do. Except release myself from this burden. Release me from this hole. I tried. I really did. Maybe not enough or in the way I should have….”
This is a work of fiction, but sadly the concept behind it is not. This story is lived day in and day out by an unknown amount of children. Many of whom do not reach out. It is not normal and it is not okay. If you or someone you know is being abused. Please reach out for help and never stop reaching out for help. Help is always there even when it feels like the whole world won’t listen to you. Click the links below to find help or to find out how you can help those in need.You are not powerless and you are loved.
I debated on how graphic I wanted to get with this story… from the suicide to the abuse… I debated for a long time… this story kind of took a life of it’s own… I started the story with the idea to write a back story to a previous character… Sylvia from Purgatory… seemed pretty simple… I liked the character a lot from that story… I liked her attitude… I liked who she could have been… seeing how everyone in that story is dead already when we meet them… I wanted to do a sequel…
The original idea for Sylvia was to write out a “love story” where she explains what her scars are from to the main character of Purgatory… (Fun fact… I only kept writing that story because of her… Sylvia to me was the thread that held that early story together for me…) but I don’t do love stories very well… and I wasn’t sure how she had gotten her scars… In the original story she never says… she hides them when ever she can… spark… “why?”… and the more I thought about it… the more it became the story above… Of course when I came up for air I found myself someplace very far from a “love story”…
The first couple of drafts had way more detail… way more things that didn’t need to be said… and I’m not afraid to say certain things… I’ve got stories toprove it… but this one seemed different… though this didn’t happen to me personally… it felt personal… which made this one that much harder to write… as an observer it is always easier to write something when you are not attached to the subject… I of course didn’t want anything to ever happen to Sylvia… I don’t want anything to happen to anyone… and sadly these things do… So I didn’t want to just file it away and pretend like these things don’t happen… That these things could never happen…
Sometimes the hardest things to say are the ones that need to be said the most…
Forcing myself to die Tearing out my eyes Want to tear everything down Forget that I ever existed At all Unhappy with the path I’ve craved A hole in my heart I can not fill Your words are worthless Ready to go home So obsessed with the thought That all of this is pointless Forcing myself to die Tearing out my heart Want to tear out every part Forget that I ever existed Turns out, none of this was fun After all Unhappy with the life I’ve created A hole in my heart I can not fix My thoughts are worthless Ready to get going So obsessed with the thought Bags been packed for a while Forcing myself to live Tearing up at the thought These faults are my own Forget that I ever existed At all So I can move on Letting the hole in my heart Bleed out Words I thought I could lose Burned into my skin I love you now like I loved you then
Living In Time
Thinking about the future Dwelling on the past What to do when the scars don’t heal Open, bleeding wound Close my eyes and hope Nothing ever comes Time heals all wounds Truth is, the best we can hope for Is that time will stop the bleeding Your lies a thorn in my spine Walk, pretend everything is fine Following the path of least resistance Resisting the urge to end it all What’s starting over If the most that you hoped for Lead me here This has all been a waste of time Everyone tells me I’m fine This is normal, give it time A splintered lie digging in my spine I don’t care, lets say I did Thinking about the future Dwelling on the past Close my eyes and maybe I’ll die
This could go on for a while… I mean a long while… I have pages and pages of how I feel… how I’ve felt… how I’m feeling… as of late… to be honest… I think I have only hit the tip of the iceberg… so bare with me… this glass is sharper than I thought…
In other news… I am going to start working on a big project… so look out for that… on top of… sad poems about killing myself… : ) Always a good time… here at Chewing On Glass…
Digging at the stitches Running my fingers across the scars My heart nothing more than a reminder A map made of blood and pain Who am I to know what to say Who was I before all of this The blood runs down my fingers On to the floor, on to more A bloody waterfall made of everything I have ever felt Who am I Who am I to question what any of this means Took what you wanted Left the discard for me to pick through A mess of emotions, tangled up thoughts The fuck you care You’ve always gotten what you need Who am I to question you My dear
Speaking crazy is not a train of thought The roaches crawl over the bodies Stacked up in the corner Laying eggs and feasting on what remains Breeding ideas that lead to a darker place in me The smell becomes home Lay your head down and inhale Takes time but all things work out in the end Cold grin chiseled into my skull Should have never taken what was never yours
Shh… you made your bed of razors Go ahead and lie down Press the cold steel against the skin What’s been done has been done Line after line Digging my own grave Said you understood Lied as you buried me in Caved in, suffocating underneath it all Lost in the darkness Your light no longer reaches me Buried under so much shit Struggling with every breath How is this any different than before A question to haunt me as I rest The final place I’ve always wanted to be Searching for a lifetime As it stood right before me, by my side Who am I if no one at all Ringing, repeating, beating, trying To be what it is you instituted in me A society I’ve always hated The world I never wanted to be born in One in the same, one among the sheep A wolf in bloody clothes
Got rejected again… starting to like it… liking the idea… that every one of my submissions is a thorn in somebodies side… does that make me an asshole?… probably… but at least I tried…
I will just have to keep on digging that grave… not like I have anything better to do anyway… listening to depressing songs to make myself feel better… yeah I’m that kind of person… no idea why… just have been… secret is… they never make me feel better… trick myself in believing that they do…
The hurt feels like it will never end Chain smoking the pain from my head Got it wrong, but then isn’t it always in the end Chained myself to a dead weight Now I’m sinking Thinking what is that I really need Air?
The hurt feels like it has been going on for a while Staring down all the suicidal thoughts from my head Got it wrong, but then its been that way for a while Starving myself to a dead weight Thinking what is it that I really need Food?
The hurt feels like it has gone on too long Walling off all traces from my head Got it wrong, but then isn’t that long enough Unchained myself to a dead weight Now I’m confusing Thinking what is it that I really need You?
Of course I would return to the warm weather in Texas after a month away in the cold… and get sick… powering through it though… So if this week is all scattered and makes no sense… it’s the sickness… (rolls eyes)…
Fun highlights of my life right now…
I gave up soda… in a second step to cut out caffeine from my daily life… I feel like punching someone in the throat… so it’s going well… haha… the biggest differences I’ve noticed so far… besides my irritability to anyone who speaks to me… not a whole lot… I’m at that point in my withdraw… where quitting makes no sense… I wasn’t dead before… I was happy… I was a fun person to be around… It made me feel better… I think it is called denial… I’d ask someone… but then I might punch them in the throat…
I started playing bass guitar again after a sixteen year absence… I’m as awful at it as you are imagining… it’s awesome… bass guitar was the first instrument I got as a kid… I wanted drums… every parents nightmare… my mom talked me into a bass guitar… I only agreed because Mark Hoppus from Blink-182 was cool… so why not… less than a year later I was begging for drums again… which I eventually got… I played drums through out high school… I just realized there was no point to this story… haha… yeah I need more sleep…
