It's easy to keep a facade up in front of others. But when I'm at home, when I'm in my own room and free of prying eyes, I can let the mask recced.
After speaking to Lucas, I was left in a deafening silence. It was only me and my thoughts, something I had no desire to entertain. I wished he didn't have to hang up, though I knew it was inevitable. I could hear my parents moving about downstairs, but I knew they wouldn't seek me out for the rest of the day.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I prepare for a shower. My face is the same as everyone else sees, but the light that used to shine in my eyes, my happiness and innocence, has long since left. My face looks dull, almost lifeless, in the solace of the bathroom. The low lighting casting gaunt shadows on my face.
I don't eat much. I know that, my stomach too. Though my parents believe the evil that lives inside of me is more likely to leave an inhabitable host. Consequences of those beliefs - my health - be dammed.
At what point will they realise there is no way to remove the evil within me?
I've tried to be with a woman. It was one of the lowest nights I've had. If I could change time I would tell my younger self to leave the party. To not follow the girl as she led me to the bedroom. To not do what I my parents believed I should do, was was right and natural.
It wasn't even that long ago. My mind hasn't grown that much since, but I knew with certainty after that night that no willpower, no prompting from my parents through harsh words and forceful actions, could change the fact that I didn't want to be with a woman.
I've been with men, more so as a way to prove to myself that this is what I wanted; though I didn't really want that either. I never fully enjoyed it. Maybe deep down seeking sexual encounters that I didn't desire was my way of trying to deter myself. I could associate these negative experiences with men. If I'd never experienced enjoyment or pleasure when laying with a man, only pain and unpleasant thoughts, then surly my parents were right and being with a man was unnatural. Wrong.
I suppose that was why I slept with people I knew I shouldn't. People that didn't treat me well, that were too rough, that caused me pain, that only sated a need within me but offered nothing more. Because being with a man was wrong, it wasn't meant to happen, so it should hurt. I should hurt.
It was a vicious cycle and in the end all it brought me was shame.
Shame that I'd slept with a man. Shame about the things we had done, the things I had done. Shame about my desires. Shame about giving my body away. Shame about doing it all while disliking it at the same time.
When I thought about it I felt like crying, like screaming and shouting to the world about all the pain and self-hatred I felt. But my voice was long gone, my tears dry and my pain all encompassing. It was eating me from the inside out and soon there would be nothing left.
Something was very wrong with me. I knew that. There were many signs. Yet, I didn't seek help.
When I was younger I had asked. My mind was not a place I wanted to live in anymore. Every day it was getting harder to get up, to leave my room, my bed. There was a war raging in my head and I was losing the battle.
"It's my cross to bear", words that I have heard many times before.
When I sought the help I so desperately needed those were the words that escape my mother's lips. I didn't receive comfort, reassurance, or support. I was told that God had a plan and if this is what he bestowed upon me I had to face it myself, to show him I was worthy of his love.
The fact my parents were the root cause of this so called plan was moot.
My mother did take me to the doctors, but when they eventually diagnosed me with depression, the tablets I was prescribed were discarded, and the pain was left for me to struggle through alone.
I shouldn't take tablets. I needed to fight this myself. This was God's will; he was testing me and medication was cheating. I needed to prove myself.
I was failing.
I was in a constant tug of war. One part of me, filled with my brothers' reassuringwords and my friend's acceptance, told me that there was nothing wrong withbeing gay. Love was love regardless the gender. The other part of me had beentaken up with words of sin and hate. Words from my parents and my pastortelling me that I was condemned; that I'd strayed from God, been possessed bythe devil and something evil had rooted itself deep inside me. A part that was adamant that liking the same gender was so very, very wrong.
I worried that part, the negative one filled with self-hatred and self-deprecating thoughts, was slowly eating into the other side of me. The slightly happier version I could be on occasion. Those occasions now coming few and far between. It seemed like drinking alcohol, or taking other mind-numbing substances, were some of the only times I could feel like that again. They offered me a reprieve from the chaos of my mind.
If my parents knew about that it would give them more reason to hate me. But I was drowning, a weight tied to my ankle dragging me further under. Those days my mind became hazy, I could breathe again, even slightly, and all those negative thoughts were altered and replaced with nothing. A satisfying blank canvas that painted itself with colours of the night.
I worried how much longer I could live like this. The needed to be outside of myself was becoming more and more, and I knew that was a dark road to venture down.
I knew, deep down, this wasn't helping me. It wasn't solving my problems, only delaying them. Only pushing me further away from the light, the one that showed me the path to escape.
Marcus has made it know to me, multiple times, that he is against drugs. Weed is his limit and, on those nights when I do more, I know he's disappointed in me. We've spoke about it before, but it only made things worse. I slipped up, told him part of the reason I did it - a means of escape - and that only led to more prodding. What was I trying to escape? I couldn't tell him that.
He doesn't bring it up as much anymore. He checks in with me, but when I don't give him more than an okay what else can he do? It's my fault, always has been. The rift I created between us appeared on those nights, I could see it in his eyes, his annoyance, hurt, concern. A myriad of emotions flitter across his face when he saw my dazed expression, when he saw me leave a bathroom stall with a familiar face, when he saw a pill being placed in my awaiting mouth.
I knew could try telling someone again. Maybe my brother's this time, or even Marcus.
But my parents are just looking out for me, aren't they? When I think like that I want to laugh at my own stupidity. If they loved me, they would accept me; they would never think of trying to 'cure' me, let alone hurt me. That doesn't change that fact that I'm scared to speak about it. Why, I'm no longer sure.
I told a teacher in school when my parents first hurt me physically. By this point my parents had already convinced me I was a sinner. They found a way to help me: they needed to force the devil out, and the devil didn't like fire.
It wasn't a large burn that time. About the length of a pinkie. I remember the pain though. I remember crying when they placed hot metal against my skin. I remember my thrashing, my needed to get away. I remember the scream trying to escape my lips being stopped by fabric placed in my mouth. I remember the trail of tears that ran like a waterfall down my cheeks. I was crying for my pain, my sadness, the loss of the parents I once had. I couldn't understand what was happening or the words they were saying. It all seemed wrong.
So, I told my teacher. I had the evidence to prove it right there on my forearm, but my Mum worked in the school. She always said I had an overactive imagination and apparently, after injuring myself on the oven, I'd fabricated this story to make it sound more interesting.
Why I would lie in such a way no one questioned.
I didn't ask a teacher for help after that. Not when it was disregarded so easily. Not when I was scolded for the words I spoke - the truth I shared.
I wanted to speak to my brothers, but it was my sin, I deserved what was happening to me. It was for the best.
Still, I reached for the phone and dialled my brothers on a three-way call. Not in an attempt to release myself of the burden I carried, but to hear their comforting voices, to remind myself I was loved, that they would miss me if I acted on the dark thoughts swarming my mind.
I'd call this some form of sucess.
"Hey brosky." Adam's voice sounded through after the third ring.
"Oh, we're having a three-way." Bailey's comment was swiftly followed by words of disgust.
"Let's just ignore Bailey, yeah?" I agreed with Adam, ignoring the protests from the brother in question.
"What have you guys been up to? Fill me in on your lives."
"You spoke to us three days ago."
I knew we had only spoken recently, but I needed a distraction. I wanted something to hold onto otherwise I was sure to slip. I was hanging precariously over the edge of a cliff, a thin rope my only lifeline and it was taught. I knew the rope was snap soon, it was only a matter of time.
"And?"
"Yeah Bailey, do you not want to talk to us? We can boot you out."
"Hey! No, don't go." Bailey whined.
"So," I prodded, "'your lives?"
"Well, i'm hanging. I went on a pub crawl yesterday and it was intense. As in, a drink in every place and we went to about ten. I was fine up until maybe the ninth, only three of us had made it this far, the rest had left, so you know we decided to get a celebratory shot. Why not? Well, turns out it was a big mistake. Totally fucked us over."
"Severs you right for being idiots then."
"Is this why you sent us loads of videos?"
"Wait, none of you have even looked at them?" When he received two no Bailey continued, "gosh sometime I wonder if you people love me. I get no appreciation whatsoever." He huffed in faux-annoyance. "Be warned then 'cause I have no recollection of what I sent you. Could be me, could be Mac. I'm pretty sure Mac was flashing his ass at some point so maybe it was that."
"You seem to like filming people throwing up when you're drunk so maybe it was that. I hope not though, I've seen enough vomit thank you very much."
"Woah, are we just gonna brush past Mac showing people his ass. I think we need to know more about that."
"Of course you'd want to hear more about Mac's ass, Kay. So predictable."
"Well in his defence, I'm also curious."
"I think maybe he was warm?" Bailey questioned as if that was a somewhat reasonable guess. "Or maybe a dare? I can't remember and thinking makes my head hurt."
As stupid as my brothers were, they provided me the comfort I sought and the distraction I needed. Our conversation jumped from random story to random story, and I was thankfully I could always rely on them. Maybe I needed to trust them enough to help me through the hard stuff.
---
A/N:
Do you have any siblings?
This is pretty similar to an actually conversation I had with my brother, no joke. He went on a pub crawl and said his friend actually did that.