This year has been cruelly unkind to me, it's one of the things that have pushed me to the limit until I discovered that I could snatch the steering wheel of my life from God's hands. I have had 3 successful fails but I'm willing to go all in with SN because I refuse to die, but I'll underdose chronically to feel the most amount of pain a human can feel, I want to incinerate my gut slowly, burn my kidneys and liver, just makes me smile...I wish the most painful death for me, one in which my muscles spasm with a force to pop my bones from my flesh, one in which I scream like a scared kid, I deserve it, I earned it...It's just that the body can't harm itself–for my horrible sins, I would love to know the pain of testicular torsion, just that I can't do it, but if I got help, I'd go ahead with it 24hrs before I ctb with something capable of killing me.
The air in this life is too thin, or maybe it's just my lungs refusing to work. I find myself staring at my hands—the same hands that are supposed to heal people, the same hands that mastered the anatomy of the human heart—and all I can see is the way they looked that night.
They weren't my hands. They were my father's.
I grew up in a home where love was a transaction paid in bruises. My dad, the "literate" man of the village, didn't just raise a son; he built a perfection machine. If my sisters breathed wrong, I was the one who felt the wrath of his hands. I was the shield to withstand 30-80% of their consequences, their second parent, their soft padding. I learned early on that if you make a mistake, you bleed for it. That was my version of "normal" that I carried into the world. I thought I was a gentleman. I thought I was a protector.
Then I met her.
She was the first person who ever loved me for just being. Not because I was the top of my class, or the responsible first-born, or the "hope" of the family. Just me. For three years, she was the only quiet place in my loud, violent head.I found peace, I didn't wanna go home, I spent the whole years with her, at school, she was the peace I yearned for, a blessing I didn't count..
And then she lied to me. Such a small, human, insignificant lie,
But in that moment, 2nd grade came rushing back. The "If-Then" logic of my father snapped into place. If mistake, then pain. I didn't see the woman I loved; I saw a failure that needed to be "disciplined" out of her. I became the monster I spent my whole life trying to outrun.
I didn't just hit her. I destroyed her. I watched the light go out of the eyes of the only person who ever truly saw me. I had to perform first aid on the body I had just broken. Do you know what that feels like? To use the skills you studied whole nights for—to please a father who beat you—to try and bring back the woman you just tried to kill?
I wanted to take a saw to these monstrous hands. I wanted to feel them come off at the wrist because they are cursed. They aren't mine. They are a legacy of a man who didn't know how to raise a son without breaking him first.
I prayed. I begged God. I told Him, Let these hands wither. Don't let me be a doctor. I don't deserve to touch another human being. When we reconnected in January, I thought—I hoped—it was a miracle. I was going to be better. I was going to dress for her, gym for her, breathe for her, live for her. I was going to rewrite the blood out of our story. But she never came back. She saw the ghost in me, and she ran. And I don't blame her. I am a horror story.
Now, I wake up and the walls are whispering. The schizophrenia, the depression... it's like my brain is finally eating itself because it can't live with what I did. People tell me to "move on," to "be logical." They talk about it like glorified quantum problem solvers "Son, you have a Plank problem that you should let go in a Plank Second" like my soul isn't currently a crime scene.
I'm a medical student, and I know the science of a heartbeat. But I'll never know how to stop the sound of her head hitting the floor. I am my father's son, and that is a life sentence.
I can't live with this. I have tried to find help, even after my failed attempts, but maybe I wasn't looking for help, I was looking for a savior, one that would hold my hand down as I tortured myself wilth partial drowning, and hold it firm and harder until I the water filled my lungs...and one night I looked back, I expected to find God, one who rescues in his own ways, but that wasnt him, it was Sasu
and it was all I ever wanted!
The air in this life is too thin, or maybe it's just my lungs refusing to work. I find myself staring at my hands—the same hands that are supposed to heal people, the same hands that mastered the anatomy of the human heart—and all I can see is the way they looked that night.
They weren't my hands. They were my father's.
I grew up in a home where love was a transaction paid in bruises. My dad, the "literate" man of the village, didn't just raise a son; he built a perfection machine. If my sisters breathed wrong, I was the one who felt the wrath of his hands. I was the shield to withstand 30-80% of their consequences, their second parent, their soft padding. I learned early on that if you make a mistake, you bleed for it. That was my version of "normal" that I carried into the world. I thought I was a gentleman. I thought I was a protector.
Then I met her.
She was the first person who ever loved me for just being. Not because I was the top of my class, or the responsible first-born, or the "hope" of the family. Just me. For three years, she was the only quiet place in my loud, violent head.I found peace, I didn't wanna go home, I spent the whole years with her, at school, she was the peace I yearned for, a blessing I didn't count..
And then she lied to me. Such a small, human, insignificant lie,
But in that moment, 2nd grade came rushing back. The "If-Then" logic of my father snapped into place. If mistake, then pain. I didn't see the woman I loved; I saw a failure that needed to be "disciplined" out of her. I became the monster I spent my whole life trying to outrun.
I didn't just hit her. I destroyed her. I watched the light go out of the eyes of the only person who ever truly saw me. I had to perform first aid on the body I had just broken. Do you know what that feels like? To use the skills you studied whole nights for—to please a father who beat you—to try and bring back the woman you just tried to kill?
I wanted to take a saw to these monstrous hands. I wanted to feel them come off at the wrist because they are cursed. They aren't mine. They are a legacy of a man who didn't know how to raise a son without breaking him first.
I prayed. I begged God. I told Him, Let these hands wither. Don't let me be a doctor. I don't deserve to touch another human being. When we reconnected in January, I thought—I hoped—it was a miracle. I was going to be better. I was going to dress for her, gym for her, breathe for her, live for her. I was going to rewrite the blood out of our story. But she never came back. She saw the ghost in me, and she ran. And I don't blame her. I am a horror story.
Now, I wake up and the walls are whispering. The schizophrenia, the depression... it's like my brain is finally eating itself because it can't live with what I did. People tell me to "move on," to "be logical." They talk about it like glorified quantum problem solvers "Son, you have a Plank problem that you should let go in a Plank Second" like my soul isn't currently a crime scene.
I'm a medical student, and I know the science of a heartbeat. But I'll never know how to stop the sound of her head hitting the floor. I am my father's son, and that is a life sentence.
I can't live with this. I have tried to find help, even after my failed attempts, but maybe I wasn't looking for help, I was looking for a savior, one that would hold my hand down as I tortured myself wilth partial drowning, and hold it firm and harder until I the water filled my lungs...and one night I looked back, I expected to find God, one who rescues in his own ways, but that wasnt him, it was Sasu
and it was all I ever wanted!
