I could not have possibly been more difficult, in love. It wasn't that I didn't want to say it, because I had said it. And I'd never regretted it. But saying it is not the same as anything else, it's got nothing to do with meaning or significance, it's just that it can't help you when something goes wrong. Love can not save your dog that died, love cannot save your daughter from the monsters you hid her from, love cannot save you from the ever-present demons haunting you.
It's not that I'm trying to rip the meaning of love away, I'm just more in the means of telling you what it can't do. And that, that was save me. It could not save me, from myself, from my family, or from life. But it did. It could not save me from all the things I could see and tried to save myself from, but it could save me from the things I'd had no idea were so important in the first place, even though I carried them with me.
It took me ages to be able to live, and I mean really live. For the longest time I spent my time being morbidly depressed and shut-out, and it was more then about how I was feeling and what happened in the dark, than it was about how I saw the rest of life and the people around me. My demons were created the moment I could start remembering things.
The way my mother sounded when she was very drunk and screamed at my father, the way my father sounded when he tried to persaude her to calm down even though he was the reason she drank and couldn't contain herself. The way nobody could ever breathe around the house, the negativity was suffocating, even a four year old could sense that. The way even the animals hid, because they couldn't stand the family, either. The way my grandmother obviously treated me differently than my elder sibling, because I was the spitting image of my mother.
The way alcohol was always in view and always the problem, the way my father was moreover always a complete imbecile, the way I felt when I was seven and had no idea what that what the boy did was very wrong, and that even my father would betray me in that aspect. It was the way demons strolled into my home as if it had been theirs from the start, and I would not have been surprised in the least if it had. It was the way life seemed to occupy my parents, it was the way they had lived. I had not had my own demon till later on in my small life, but I knew theirs when I set eyes on them. Everyone has their demons, correct?
And I hated them. I hated how the demons were created, I hated life, even though I was so young. Seven is a very young age to have to differentiate between normal and abnormal. Abusive parents was normal to me, and it wasn't until I was ending elementary school that I realized I was wrong. They don't start teaching you how parents are "supposed" to be, they teach you all the other unimportant things. They didn't talk about how drunk a parent had to be to start destroying everything in sight, they didn't talk about how much of a jerk a parent had to be to even become his daughters demon, her nightmare.
And it wasn't until I was eleven that I had really begun realizing just how messed up my life was, and that if I didn't start telling the truth or fix it then, it would only continue to get worse. And I did not, and would not opt for the worst. From that point on, it was a battle with my conscience of when and where. "Should I tell her now? No, wrong time, wrong place. You can't do this." And it was so on and off.
It was only after I managed to get out with her for a night that I could honestly tell her, and I'd never wanted to run away more than I'd wanted that night any other time before or since then. I hated myself. I kicked myself, everyday afterword. Yes, I was right in what I'd done. Everyone made it seem like I had just called Lucifer up to start the apocalypse, that I was the cause of all of the destruction and all the falling apart. And no, you can't tell an eleven year old that it's all her fault her father was a monster and that she is to blame for the aftermath.
Because in the end, it eats her alive until she can't handle it anymore and thinks death is the only way out. But we're not there yet. It wasn't until I met another adult who'd had the same predicament I was then in that I had started to realize that the adults were to blame. Not a little girl who still had no idea what she wanted to be when she grew up, but her parents, who were never parents in the first place, the adults who should have known the call for help when she screamed it, it was everyone else's fault for not hearing her while she banged against the walls but it was like I was silent, I was already six feet under and didn't matter anymore. So I let it go.
And that was important. When you can let go of your demon, of your nightmare and you can live and you can think and you can breathe, you feel as if you can topple the world and you do. You rule it like you were meant to, like it was your throne to begin with.
When I turned thirteen, I had become a morbid disease. But I was accepted. I was seen, I was noticed, and people kept me around. That was important, too. But that's also not important.
It wasn't until I was fifteen that I had really begun accepting life and getting over the past that I was capable of living. It hadn't gone without heartbreak, death, and depression, it hadn't gone without heartache and the wishing for something to be undone. It had gone with all the pain something so emotional and mental can possibly give you, and I still hold the grief in a jar. And I wasn't drowning in the sadness that I'd let myself begin to sink into, I had dragged myself out and frozen that lake and sat and watched it.
It wasn't until I could open up to a few of my friends and explain to them why I was the way I was that I understood myself, to a degree. I smiled. I was, in a way, finally beginning to be happy. That was important, too. But not in the same way.
Days come and I examine my screaming demon in a cage, and I laugh. Maybe I am a sadist. It's got a bit more to do with masochism than anything else, but that's only my opinion.
When sophomore year of high school began and I'd seen friends and made a few mistakes and found myself dripping with...everything I'd been missing, I felt it. I felt the weight I had been carrying since I was seven, missing. I did not miss the dragging of my feet, I did not miss my hostility, and I sure as hell did not miss what kind of person I had been. I was new, I was restored, refreshed, and I was me. And that, that was one of the more important things. I had to be me. And I finally began to live.
But it was a different kind of love that saved me. It was not my own, not a lovers, it was my friends. It was their ability to accept me and tell me how it was, it was them forgiving me no matter how I acted and what I did and how I was, it was them helping me back up, it was them letting me give up time and time again, it was them letting me cry, it was them letting me kill myself over and over and recreating myself, until now. It was their ability to let me be and stand by me, it was their unconditional love that saved me, in the end.
And now?
Now I tell my story, from a new beginning.
Love saved me. I might only be a sophomore, I might have a boyfriend that means more to me than almond joys, I might be able to say where I can go from here, but there's a little more to it than that, and someday, I'll find it.
That is what is important. The ability to see what you need, and grasp it. There are only the restraints you create for yourself.

The End

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