Drifting toward health.
Drifting toward death.
It doesn’t seem like this should be so confusing, but it is.
Some days ago, a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, stood in my childhood bedroom watching in freeze mind as my mother threw out her toys into the big green dumpster my mother had wheeled into the room.
This child did not understand, as any reasonable person wouldn’t, why her mother insisted on stripping every bit of humanity out of her.
She caused no trouble in the house. She did everything her mother or brothers told her to do. She had sex with whoever wanted it. She tried not to breathe as she was afraid it would upset them. Her existence was so minimal.
Still, with trying to do everything right, her mother hated her with such sadistic pleasure.
Her mother had made sure to strip her of everything.
Decency. Humanity. Love. Free thought. All gone.
She was forced to live in a room that only had a bed and a piece of office furniture. There could be no signs of a human child living there. Only nothingness, so she would always know she was nothing and nobody.
The little girl is stuck in this place, long past trying to understand her life.
Confusion, obedience, and an ounce of pain belonged to her.
I watched her for days. She was stuck there. I was stuck watching her. I had no explanation to give her. Yes, it was all vaguely familiar to me, but I wanted to keep it “not me” because that looks like such a painful, awful existence. Who would want that?
Feelings of suicide had been circling us as a system. I was not in as much control as I usually am, partly because watching this little girl made me want to die.
So I let the others inside me deprive the body of oxygen until I reached an altered state of consciousness. Here, I could go to the little girl in the bedroom.
Like I would do with my own wounded outside children, I reached down and picked her up and held her. She had never been held before, but she did not resist me and gave in to trusting me and let me carry her away.
I held her tightly against me, with her legs wrapped around me, and I could feel her pain and confusion. It is stuck in my heart.
I wanted to promise her that she would never be hurt again, but I knew I couldn’t do that in this very imperfect world.
She had endured more pain and suffering than a nation of people.
She would experience it no more.
I delivered her to the angels in heaven as I knew of no other place that promises the end of suffering. I told her she would be safe there, and the angels would love her and take care of her.
After I delivered her, I gasped for breath to get some oxygen in my earthly body. I was barely there. I was barely making it out alive.
I struggle to care about the damage done to my brain, or my almost lost life. It seems unimportant in the scheme of things.
I look to my childhood bedroom everyday since then, and it is empty. She is gone. She is free from the cruelty dealt to her.
I am relieved to have set her free. And uncertain as to what this means for me.