Broken Things by Blue

My little feet were intact to the solid earth’s crust but why did I feel like I was drowning? I was too young and naive to diagnose myself into something I do not understand back then. I was numb and in a desperate need to feel and nothing really helped unless it involved pointy edges.

The number eight is a positive integer. Sometimes, it is also an indication of unending possibilities when rotated 90 degrees— thus, the number eight becomes infinity. I was eight when all those infinite posibilities were reduced down to one.

My first heartbreak was when I was eight years old. It was when I saw the loss of fire in the furnace that once kept our home warm inside my parents’ eyes.

In Greek mythology, the goddess Hestia guards the furnace at Mount Olympus, the home of the Olympian gods. She keeps the hearth warm and burning as well as the gods together. But this is not Greek and I am no god. Even their eight-year old son wasn’t enough to keep this family from falling apart.

I was also eight when I realized I was no longer human but a breathing marionette. My strings were attached amongst the fingertips of both my parents. I tried to convince myself I was an adventurer, a captain of my own ship who needed someone’s help to navigate this journey of a life, when in fact I was never the captain but merely the passenger. And the more they navigate, the more lost I’ve become.

I was their puppet and I wish I could use the invisible strings to strangle myself.

I’ve heard over the radio about this certain announcer surprised by the fact that as young as thirteen-year olds, children commit suicide. I am so sorry to break it to him but I was ten when I started to hurt myself.

The memory was fuzzy like an unfocused camera and I don’t remember much of it. Maybe it was my mind’s coping mechanism or maybe part of me just didn’t want to remember such a dreadful past.

I was being locked away in a basement everytime my parents think I did something wrong. Chasing dragonflies didn’t exactly made the cut for my level of wrongness but since I was naive and had nothing figured out-yet, I was dragged inside the dark four-cornered space like a dog on leash and spent the entire night crying myself to sleep.

Children my age that time were probably on a warm cozy bed made even warmer by their mother’s arms and bathed by their good night kisses along with their father’s promises of a brand new day. My only companions that night were the cold floor, dusty scrapped and unused things being stored away and may even be forgotten.

Maybe I was forgotten too. Maybe they forgot I was there son.

There were also times when they forced me inside a bag and was hung like I was a boxer’s own personal brand of punching bag. I wish someone had really punched the life out of me.

I did not hate them though. It was myself I am enraged with. I was – still am – a disappointment who eats and breathes. An encapsulation of a son they can never be proud of. I am a mistake they try to correct, a broken thing that can never be fixed.

Blue is fighting depression.


November 5-December 7, 2018