Growth

 36. The most boring of numbers. A meaningless arrangement of digits to most and yet for me, this number meant strength. This number meant the distance between hinderence and happiness on levels one could only fathom in their wildest of dreams. For me, you see, 36 was the number of miles it would take for me start anew; to restore the person I knew I deserved to be again.

  I grew up in an average suburb. Life was great. A quiet town, much too quiet on occasion, but peaceful nonetheless. I lived the life, in theory, most could only hope for. A two family home filled with more laughter and ruckus than our ranch-style home domain could seem to contain. I was blessed with three younger siblings, and my beautiful grandmother was always down the hall just blasting away and singing along to her inspirational music, alive and well and plentiful in love. A best friend who lived on the the other side of town yet spent so much time here, he was practically family. Picture perfect, right? Thing is, from a young age I learned that if nothing else...my family were the ultimate actor and actresses. We’d perfecting the art of pretending, the art of forgetting.

  Do me a favor. For a moment, close your eyes. Try and block out the fact that the hearty laughter that seems to dance along the halls and bleed through the walls of your home are just a result of the liquid poison mother and step-father drown themselves in day and night. Fill the silence of tears that fall full of pain and hatred with loud, blaring music that wraps itself around you like a blanket and cradles you because they sing of what you live. Pretend for just a moment that nana lives with you of her own accord, and that the illness isn't eating away at her brain, her very being. Remind yourself to bask in her love because though her time is limited, she still lets you know that her heart is beating for you. Tell yourself it doesn't hurt and that she’ll somehow be here forever to protect you. Design a get-away, a world where her music isn't a futile attempt at washing away the evil and fear you feel after stepfather paints your home with bullet holes. Turn a blind eye to mother passed out on the ground, a beer in hand and a joint still lit in the other. Ignore you best friend urging you to leave, and knowing you can't. You hold that home together. What would they do without you?

  I couldn’t. I'd lie awake at night, praying for an escape. There had to be better out there than this. It just wasn't fair. I was so sick of the responsibility of holding my siblings close, drying their tears while I desperately tried to ignore the fire I felt as my arms leaked crimson. Wounds self inflicted to distract my mind from not only the voices shouting in my home but the ones in my head. They always seemed so loud, screaming expletives at me in their highest pitch to make sure I knew. They’d been screaming for over two decades, why weren’t they tired? I got it! I was worthless, I was broken, I was damaged. I’d had enough.

  I sat upon my freezing cold, brown stone tile floor, staring blankly at the peeling paint and the mold forming in the corners of my bedroom walls. My family had gone out for the night. The kids were old enough to watch themselves now, so they were off in their room doing what kids do. For a moment, I second-guessed myself. Was I making the right decision? Was I selfish for finally thinking of myself? Was I wrong to want to be rid of the agony of not only my own mental turmoil, but the agony of an alcoholic upbringing. The only woman I had left wouldn't even be able to process this, she’d soon be gone anyway. My siblings were fine, they were strong. They lived this life too...they'd understand. And so I found an old blade from my days in beauty cool. I opened it. I placed the cool blade against my wrist and with a smile plastered on my face, everything seemed to begin to fade as I moved back and forth, up and down. I felt the warmth overtake me. I heard the ringing in the distance. Sheesh, that ringing was loud…

  I’d forgotten I’d made plans that night. I’d forgotten my best friend has a key. I’d forgotten that he was so impatient that though he was calling me to come outside, he’d still barge in to urge me to hurry.


 “Such a girl,” he’d call it. I’m so thankful for his impatience...

  Bright lights. The first thing I saw when my eyes fluttered opened as the smell of death and ammonia coasted along the air.

 “Where the hell am I?” I thought to myself.

  I went to speak, but my throat felt dry, and I gasped out in mild pain. I heard a gasp, rich in excitement. I shifted my gaze, and there lie my best friend. He was pale in complexion, eyes bloodshot, yet filled with so much relief….it hit me. What had I almost done? How did I forget the man who’s given me the world time and time again? How could I hurt him this way? I reached out for him, tears now dripping from my face and I was immediately engulfed in his embrace. I felt so safe...I’ll never forget that moment.

  “Your things are packed. This ends now. You’re coming home with me.”

  I wanted to protest. But why? My body was drained and quite frankly, I was tired of fighting. I sighed. I was betraying my family, my siblings, I knew that. Still I agreed.

  It’s been 7 months. 210 days that I've been able to breathe. 5,040 hours of happiness, of comfort, of bliss. I’m getting stronger each day. I’m able to forgive, able to heal. My grandmother is still going strong for now. Mother has bipolar disorder; she’s getting help. My siblings are growing and happy and step-father is gone. My leaving prompted a change. I’m pretty proud of that. I met a lovely man at my new apartment, a roommate of my best friend. He helps me heal in ways I could have never imagined, I gained a new life. I gained a new me. And I gained a new favorite number.

                                                                  36.