it was never about me
I wonder how life would have changed if--when I'd uttered those words, "I wish I had never been born," to the counselor when she asked if I could change one thing about my life, what would it be?--instead of repeating my pained and vulnerable words to my mother so that when I came home that evening she ambushed me demanding I think about how she felt hearing that I'd say such a thing, as if I'd spoken to harm her, to make her look a horrible mother--not to ask for help as I sunk deeper in a pit I had no idea how to escape from--what would have happened if they'd chosen to counsel me, to read the awakening shadow of my depression and guide me through my disintegrating emotion so that I would not have to wilt under the humiliation of apologizing to my parents for finally telling someone how I felt in the hopes that they would know how to make me feel different, so that I would not end up mired--as I did--in my endless cycle of silence for fear that I would hurt someone and be made subject to the burden of their pain on top of mine.
*The above is the lastest installment in my Memoirs of an Amoeba Project.