Today I cried and made a choice.
Today I chose the wrong way but I know I chose it.
There’s nothing like walking into your bedroom to find your lover staring at the wall, defeated.
Because I made a choice.
He didn’t like.
At least I’m not a lamp made of skin.
I heard this. I don’t own it. I’m not Jewish.
But I’m told I lived in a kind of concentration camp.
I feel nervous at this because I’m not sure anyone is allowed to own the idea of the concentration camp unless they are Jewish.
But it resembled one – albeit with food and school and the rest of it.
My therapist describes my concentration camp as a solitary life, where a child cooks for herself from the age of six, where she has no friends, no family, not until after 5. Where bullies were the norm. Where she sat at the front of the bus, the low seat next to the driver. Where she was the last kid off the one hour bus ride home.
My therapist tells me that my concentration camp looks lonely. Where the adults are unpredictable, even in anger. Anger involves oranges flung at mum. Unpredictable anger where a car is driven towards a pole. Unpredictable anger who didn’t come home until late at night. Mum was sad an lonely and thought she was responsible for killing her mother, but didn’t worry about how she was killing me.
I don’t know who I am. Stories flood my brain and I don’t know what’s real and what’s a lie. My dreams feel more real than my memories, at times.
I made a choice tonight and I’ll live with it.
I grabbed a bottle and chose to drink it.
Should I feel bad that I feel great for the first time in months?
How did I make my therapist cry?
What does it mean?
I feel like everything I tell him is a lie.
What is it?
I’m told no at every turn.
And it makes me 15 again, want to say “fuck you, even if I agree, I’m saying yes”.
No to painting the bathroom blue.
No to more cats.
No to more dogs.
No to making.