Robotic Hearts by Shannon
Being with him was like being hit by a car, like standing in front of a truck waiting for it to totally decimate you on it’s way to a drop off. In the beginning it was exciting, almost beautiful, but in the end. It destroyed every part of me. Me and him had met in school, I was 14 years old, him 16. We hit it off instantly, I spent my school days going to lunch with him and some friends, I spent lunches laughing so much I would cough as if my body were rejecting this new activity. When I met him I was struggling with everything, I stole my parents vodka just to avoid feeling, to numb my pain, to help me sleep through the nights. Night time was my enemy, I spent my nights unable to sleep for the fear of the monsters awaiting me in my unconscious, they threatened to consume me and all that I was would cease to exist should I surrender, should I close my eyes for one moment. I spent my nights crying, fearful of closing my eyes because it was only when I closed my eyes that I truly saw anything. I saw my demise, that monster threatening to rip out my heart and eat it in front of me, threatening to rip out my lungs and leave me gasping, begging for mercy, for some release.
When I met him I slept 1 hour a week, I wore hoodies everywhere so that my shame would not be visible, so that no one would see the damage that these monsters caused me. I felt everything and nothing all at once, I was constantly fearful to blink for a moment in fear of seeing the things that tormented me, that forever changed me. But I could also look at my own mother, the woman that had given birth to me. And feel absolutely nothing. I could put it on, love right? That’s what I was meant to show? Admiration? But when it came down to it, I was numb to the world, to everything crossing my path. I no longer hated the world, because I didn’t care, I was a robot going through the motions, it was the Wizard of Oz and I was the heartless tin man. Except he had heart the entire time, and mine was empty, missing, a dark abyss where my heart once was as I went through the motions of every day life. Then me and him met, and I thought he would fix me, I thought being with him would repair everything, that he could be my savior. That he could make me happy. It wasn’t till two years later I realized how selfish that was, to expect him to fix so much damage, damage he hadn’t even caused, couldn’t even know about. But I had not yet realized one important thing. Before I could ever be happy with him, I had to learn to be happy myself.
I jumped from person to person throughout high school life, longing to just feel something, anything. Looking for attention, love that had been lacking in my life, whether down to my own distant father or the fucked up disassociation that often diseased my every pore. I was the joker in a world filled with innocent civilians, threatening to blow up at any moment, to detonate and destroy all in my path. I was a ticking time bomb waiting for the smallest trigger, the smallest reason to explode and murder all those closest to me. I recall cutting for the first time before meeting him. My mother and I had an argument, I had been foolish, putting myself in dangerous situations with people much older than me time and time again. My mother had assumed it was because I was naive, I didn’t see the danger. But she was wrong, not only did I note the danger awaiting me, I welcomed it, begged for it. Because while shitty. Fear was a feeling, a terrible one, but at least I would feel something other than the emptiness overcoming my every cell, engulfing my soul like the flames that threatened to make me explode.
She threw my piggy bank on the floor that I had been holding, fiddling with in an attempt to not look up at her, my mother was so swept up in her rage, the fear that turned into rage as she thought of all the bad things that could have happened to me, that she didn’t notice the darkness in my eyes. If only she knew the bad things that had actually happened, that had kept me up at night. I knelt down studying the broken fragments of that pink ceramic pig that had been a part of my life since I was 2 years old when my grandparents purchased it, I should have been sad staring at the broken fragments of my past. But nothing mattered anymore, I felt nothing and that was how I liked it most of the time. No one could hurt you if you felt nothing. You weren’t weak. This argument had been particularly haunting to me, the woman who carried me for nine months had screamed, cried, begged me to stop. And I felt nothing. I blankly stared at her. For the first time in months, I needed to feel something, anything, even if it hurt. The first cut was the most blissful, as the crimson river dripped from my arm I felt the rush of pressure releasing it’s grip on me, I felt lighter, almost high on the instant release I experienced, every emotion I hadn’t felt for years, every thought, every ounce of me spilled out in those little drips on my laminated floor. And for the first time in 4 years, I cried. This was to be the start of a dangerous addiction.
I had to wear cardigans, hoodies, anything with long sleeves to hide my new addiction, so that people wouldn’t see how truly damaged I was. Meeting him helped me, while still numb I had perfected my false laugh, my masked smile that hid so much. But there were rare occasions with him that my laughter was real, that my smile was genuine and not that of the mask I had grown oh so accustomed to wearing each day. We started to hang out on the weekends, we would go little treks through the country near our homes, hang out at shopping centers being stupid, him singing even though no talent was visible, the smile he wore so often while being utterly ridiculous was infectious, something I grew to admire and also loathe, something I wished I could have for myself, but something I loved on him. We spent every weekend together being stupid, every lunch time the same way at school. After a while we were going out, but my heart was not prepared for how short lived that would be. After 1 month of giving the smallest bit of myself to him, of allowing myself to indulge in his laughter. My uncle was dying, I had subconsciously kept note of the fact he was getting worse but tried to pretend he wasn’t. Tried to fool myself into thinking miracles were real, a few more months of treatment and he would be back to karaoke, back to dancing and making us all laugh and smile like he once had before the tumor diseased his brain making it hard for him to remember any punchline, any song lyric.
My uncle had been my favorite member of my father’s family, I even preferred him to my own father, the life burning inside him was something that always fascinated me, the good radiated from him, his heart so often visible in everything he did, my uncle doted on us, he did everything for us, if you wanted something he would buy it, if you were hurting he would make you laugh, do a little dance, tease you in the way he so often did, sing. Whatever it may be, he would use it to make you sit bursting at the seams till you could no longer hold it back or resist, till you erupted into a fit of laughter. I despised how he knew exactly where to tickle me so that I would crumble, but when he got sick I would’ve given anything for him to annoy me that same way one last time. To call me my nickname that I had so often hated, the nickname those little plastic mind boggling pills had erased from his mind. In those months before he left me he was a shell of the lively firework I had adored, he no longer sang with me to songs we loved, no longer remembered his best jokes. But still found ways to make my heart come alive with total adoration. He was the absolute perfect embodiment of everything a man should be, strong but vulnerable with a heart of pure gold. He gave everything for his family, poured himself into our family, into ensuring we all had everything we needed, ensuring we were always laughing, always happy.
And now the light that he brought into my life was fading with each passing day, I secretly knew this but refused to admit it, to let myself believe someone so bright could be struck down at 30 years old. Being with Malcolm had made it easier to push this down further, till my weekly phone call with my uncle, that was when it came rushing back, those fears, the knowledge his time was almost up. I tried telling myself that his pain would soon be over which was good, but the minute his pain was finished would be when mine multiplied by thousands. As if he passed his pain to me without knowing, without meaning it. My uncle fought for four years to stay with us, to keep being the family crutch, the glue that held us all together was dissolving and none of us knew how to handle it.
It was 2 days before my 15th birthday, my father had told me that my uncle was getting worse the night before, it was on that day I turned to my best friend with a grim prediction. My uncle would leave us on my birthday. I walked into school that day barely holding it together, pieces of the wall I had built in my mind slowly fragmenting away. I survived that day, only crying once, in the solitude of a toilet cubicle in the schools poorly lit bathroom. Lunch came, the one time of day I had been holding it together for all day, the time I kept telling myself would be fun, filled with laughter to help me forget the agony slowly eating me up, no one knew truly how much agony I was in that week, how often I begged for death to grip my hand and drag me down and leave my uncles hand free of his icy grip. For he deserved this life more than I. He appreciated things more than me. He was the strength my family needed, we relied on it to survive, without him, we were all adrift on floating bits of wood and he were the titanic crashing into that frosty rock of death. I wandered up to the man that had made me laugh oh so often, on this day I needed him, I needed to be held, for someone to tell me it was fine. But instead, when I requested a hug, he declined, told me he didn’t want me anymore. On a normal day, the break up wouldn’t have done anything to me, I wouldn’t have cared.
But on this day it decimated me, I nodded and rushed from him heading to lunch alone on this day. I cried the whole way down my school hill to the shops for lunch. It was that day I begged for it to be over more than ever, that day I longed for death. He never truly knew how much that devastated me, how could he? He didn’t know of my uncle, he didn’t know how much I needed him, not even him. Just anyone. I blamed this in the next few coming years for our demise, for us fragmenting apart. My birthday two days later was not much better, the night before my birthday was filled with fun and laughter, alcohol being the source of my stupid grin as my cheeks grew to adopt a rosy red color I so often got once drunk. I watched movies with my best friend, ate various unhealthy things that should never have been allowed considering my diet. But this was only temporary, a false reality lulling me into a false sense of security and happiness before I was to be totally destroyed. The day of my birthday I awoke beside my best friend, hungover but happy. For that moment I was in a blissful state of peace, happiness recalling the nights laughter. But happiness for me, was only ever temporary, every wave of happiness was followed by an iceberg that had been planning my demise.
Your gran called me last night, I didn’t want to tell you because you were having so much fun. But your uncle passed away in his sleep.
Never before had a single sentence filled me with such devastation and such guilt. For years I had felt nothing, and now I felt everything. My prediction was right. And while I had been drinking and laughing, my uncle drew his last breath, without me. The man that so often held my hand, comforted me and led me. Had died without me there to hold his hand, to tell him how much I adored him. I didn’t cry, but stared at my mother too afraid to talk, I didn’t utter a word but nodded in understanding, till she asked if I wanted to go to his home to say goodbye, without hesitation I told her I needed to. The funeral ruined me even more, it was that day one of the worst experiences ever to befall me, for the rest of that year I longed for death, I couldn’t concentrate on exams because for me they had no point. I wouldn’t make it to 16, there was no point to plan next year or the rest of my life, because this was to be my last year on this Earth.
It was this time that I now realize, had doomed the rest of my relationship with Malcolm, a few years later we were fated to try again, this time making it to 4 years, but I don’t think I truly ever forgave him for this period in my life, I never got over the hurt he caused. When I was 17 we got back together, and it was the craziest thing ever to cross my path. He helped me heal, he made me a better person. I thought I loved him, he had fixed me, or so I thought. 4 years. Of laughing, crying and literally almost dying, he saved my life in more ways than he could fathom, the nightmares stopped. And after 12 years of secrets I spoke about my pain, all the pain except that pain he had caused me at 15. For years I convinced myself he would leave again, he would get bored again. Those four years plagued me with so much worry, worrying I wasn’t enough, worrying he would cheat or change his mind, worrying about money because he refused to work while I worked myself into the ground. And after four years, I was tired, I gave up trying, gave up fighting, and I engulfed myself in the loneliness, in the numbness that had become my only friend. I slept around trying to feel something again, trying to mimic the closeness I had with him, but nothing helped, nothing mattered, I was alone once more. And I didn’t know if I would be able to survive it again.
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