I clipped my own wings but by no means I consider myself as an angel. Maybe a bird of sorts.
There was once a time I felt I could fly – dreamt of the cold winds dampening my skin and a chill down my spine. I felt free, alive and not here.
I lived my life thus far with the hope of a graceful death with no regrets. It feels silly to say that I live to die, yet this was the first and continuing thought I had after… a suicidial moment as a child.
Many have said that, in such moments, memories of friends and family in your life ‘flashed before your eyes’, so to speak. Though, for me, it was the thought of what could be that terrified, excited me and motivated a single action that saved my life – putting down the knife.
As a child, reflectiveness was my strength known to only one other person, my brother, whilst as a weakness known only to myself.
With a kitchen knife in my hand, the same one I had accidently cut myself a year or so before, I hope for a painless death maybe because of a sense of familiarity I had with it. I thought of a future that was not yet written in the pages of my diary – my possible children, possible husband, possible life of luxury.
Yes, family and children was too early of a thought for someone who was just in primary school but once again, I was and am a reflective person. These thoughts I kept to myself because once upon a time my brother told me I was too young to be thinking about this. It was the only moment I truly opened up to him or anyone in my family. Yet made me feel different and isolated from the world. It was the first time I called myself ‘strange’.
As I reminisced, only pain rippled and spread from my heart and then outwards. Cleaching my chest, I forced myself to remember the happiness I felt with friends and family. Flashes of yellow and glimpses of familiar faces played in my mind like a movie in a split second. The world to me seemed much more simplier to me back then as I could make sense of it all. Then it became too big and to complicated to understand. I was lonely and unsecure in this world which only a week or so before was only my school and home.
It was only after I settled the knife on the dinner table that I learnt how to live. I began to accept the fact that I was truly too young. I needed to seperate myself from society. Doing so was hard because I felt to not accept the world, seek to understand it, resolve its issues or help those within, was cold and heartless. I cried the following days, with my father waking me up during the middle of the night to ask me what was wrong. I told him ‘it is just a bad dream’ and forced myself to suppress my sadness.
Eventually, I forgot all this. Yet that feeling in my chest never left and my excuses to cover them up wore thin.