like a cut without the pain [Meghan]
Apr 17, 2014 20:12:09 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on Apr 17, 2014 20:12:09 GMT -5
My hatchet cuts through the piece of wood after two quick strikes and the log falls in half with a spliiiiiiiit chunk! leaving me with two pieces that still aren't perfectly sliced. I throw the pieces aside in the failure pile and try again, this time going slower. But even as I slow the stroke of the hatchet and picture in my mind what this split log will look like, they both fall to the ground on either side of me completely uneven. I can feel the panic rising to my chest as my heart pumps faster and faster - not because of the physical effort, but with the fear that if I don't get this right something bad will happen. Again.
Again. Again. Again. I have to keep trying. I have to get this. Just one more log, one more try and I'm sure I will get this right ... "No, oh my gosh, no." And I huff and sigh and wipe at my eyes as impending tears threaten and I toss more logs to the side. All still failures. I collapse to the ground, leaning against the tree stump I had been using as a chopping block, taking deep breaths just like my brother had taught me. (But he isn't here, is he?)
That's when I notice the way my shadow dances on the ground, how far the sun has sunk in the sky, how hungry I am, and just how long I have been out here, trying to perfect my damn wood splitting skills! I've been out here since morning. And now the sun was setting and there was no way I was going to be able to make it to the hospital in time to see Oliver. What kind of sister was I? Sure he couldn't talk and sure he had been like that for awhile now, but it had been my fault. If I had done everything like I was supposed to that day, if I had checked the lock - one, two, three, four - four times like I knew I had to in order to protect my family, Oliver wouldn't be in a coma right now. And I sure as hell wouldn't be here, crying into my knees, in a forest, all alone.
The stack of split logs to my right is so big, I imagine it could fuel the fireplaces of every home in District 7 for an entire month and when I find the strength to lift my head and look into my palms, I find them blistered and bleeding and cracked where they had been soft and delicate this morning. I hadn't even noticed the pain until now. My shoulders ached, my back ached, and my hands were burning. I could just hear my brother telling me to, "Relax. You don't need to get this right, trust me. Everyone will be okay if you just come home." but on the other hand I can see my mother stealing some prized possession and getting taken away to the Detention Center for it. I need to make sure that doesn't happen ... I have to keep cutting.
My knees wobble as I stand and my hands shake when I reach for my hatchet as exhaustion really begins to take over, but I know that if I don't get this wood cut correctly, I will lose my mother. I just know it - I can feel it. That's the way this whole thing works. This ... disorder. But even as I position the next block of wood, even as I take the next swing (not forgetting to twist the handle of the hatchet in my hands four times), I can feel myself being controlled. That's the way it has always been with me. From the time I was nothing but a child I was counting things, one by one, distracted for hours on end by a bag of marbles. Not because I thought the swirls within the glass were pretty or the colors intrigued me, but because I wanted to make sure there was the same amount every time I counted them.
I couldn't fall asleep without knowing how many marbles were in that bag - if one was missing, I would search until I just plain collapsed from exhaustion. Once my mother found me sleeping on the rug in front of the bathroom door. And another time (yes, on one of the multiple occasions this happened) my brother found me curled up on the kitchen counter.
He's the only normal one in the family. He would always be talking to me and mom, telling us that because we were special, we had to take special care of ourselves. And it was true. We are different. I've researched it before and still I cannot control my actions. "Your brain is wired differently. It's more ... organized. You like organization. Repetition." And I knew that was true, but I also knew that it was unhealthy, but I just couldn't stop myself.
That's how it is for my mother, too. Only she has to take things. I have to fix things and count things and make everything perfect, and my mother has to steal things she doesn't need or want. We are like puppets. We don't want to, but we have to. That's why my arms keep swinging. That's why I ignore the sting of the popping blisters on my palms. That's why I have to perfectly split a damned piece of wood. Because I can't control it. And why would I want to control it? I know that bad things happen when I don't count, when I don't continue the pattern and the routine. I know it. I've seen it happen. With Oliver. I've seen it.
I ignore the tears that stream down my face as I continue fail, as the split wood keeps falling in uneven pieces. I cut more and more wood, still failing to get the result Iwant need and as the air begins to chill and the sun begins to sink over the horizon, I am no longer swinging the hatchet to get perfection - I am swinging because I want to.
I swing until I am no longer placing any wood on the chopping block, I am only hacking away at a tree stump. I pause to catch my breath and wipe the tears from my face, but when I do that I only get the urge to count the wood that sits in the pile next me. And that only makes me swing harder and faster than before at the tree stump. It only makes me cry harder and scream louder. What am I screaming at? What am I crying for? What am I hacking at? Why am I so angry?
Life. I hate this life. And I hate myself. And nothing I do will ever change the way I am. That's why I am crying and screaming and swinging and wishing so badly that I could change. Or that I could die. Whichever is easier.
Again. Again. Again. I have to keep trying. I have to get this. Just one more log, one more try and I'm sure I will get this right ... "No, oh my gosh, no." And I huff and sigh and wipe at my eyes as impending tears threaten and I toss more logs to the side. All still failures. I collapse to the ground, leaning against the tree stump I had been using as a chopping block, taking deep breaths just like my brother had taught me. (But he isn't here, is he?)
That's when I notice the way my shadow dances on the ground, how far the sun has sunk in the sky, how hungry I am, and just how long I have been out here, trying to perfect my damn wood splitting skills! I've been out here since morning. And now the sun was setting and there was no way I was going to be able to make it to the hospital in time to see Oliver. What kind of sister was I? Sure he couldn't talk and sure he had been like that for awhile now, but it had been my fault. If I had done everything like I was supposed to that day, if I had checked the lock - one, two, three, four - four times like I knew I had to in order to protect my family, Oliver wouldn't be in a coma right now. And I sure as hell wouldn't be here, crying into my knees, in a forest, all alone.
The stack of split logs to my right is so big, I imagine it could fuel the fireplaces of every home in District 7 for an entire month and when I find the strength to lift my head and look into my palms, I find them blistered and bleeding and cracked where they had been soft and delicate this morning. I hadn't even noticed the pain until now. My shoulders ached, my back ached, and my hands were burning. I could just hear my brother telling me to, "Relax. You don't need to get this right, trust me. Everyone will be okay if you just come home." but on the other hand I can see my mother stealing some prized possession and getting taken away to the Detention Center for it. I need to make sure that doesn't happen ... I have to keep cutting.
My knees wobble as I stand and my hands shake when I reach for my hatchet as exhaustion really begins to take over, but I know that if I don't get this wood cut correctly, I will lose my mother. I just know it - I can feel it. That's the way this whole thing works. This ... disorder. But even as I position the next block of wood, even as I take the next swing (not forgetting to twist the handle of the hatchet in my hands four times), I can feel myself being controlled. That's the way it has always been with me. From the time I was nothing but a child I was counting things, one by one, distracted for hours on end by a bag of marbles. Not because I thought the swirls within the glass were pretty or the colors intrigued me, but because I wanted to make sure there was the same amount every time I counted them.
I couldn't fall asleep without knowing how many marbles were in that bag - if one was missing, I would search until I just plain collapsed from exhaustion. Once my mother found me sleeping on the rug in front of the bathroom door. And another time (yes, on one of the multiple occasions this happened) my brother found me curled up on the kitchen counter.
He's the only normal one in the family. He would always be talking to me and mom, telling us that because we were special, we had to take special care of ourselves. And it was true. We are different. I've researched it before and still I cannot control my actions. "Your brain is wired differently. It's more ... organized. You like organization. Repetition." And I knew that was true, but I also knew that it was unhealthy, but I just couldn't stop myself.
That's how it is for my mother, too. Only she has to take things. I have to fix things and count things and make everything perfect, and my mother has to steal things she doesn't need or want. We are like puppets. We don't want to, but we have to. That's why my arms keep swinging. That's why I ignore the sting of the popping blisters on my palms. That's why I have to perfectly split a damned piece of wood. Because I can't control it. And why would I want to control it? I know that bad things happen when I don't count, when I don't continue the pattern and the routine. I know it. I've seen it happen. With Oliver. I've seen it.
I ignore the tears that stream down my face as I continue fail, as the split wood keeps falling in uneven pieces. I cut more and more wood, still failing to get the result I
I swing until I am no longer placing any wood on the chopping block, I am only hacking away at a tree stump. I pause to catch my breath and wipe the tears from my face, but when I do that I only get the urge to count the wood that sits in the pile next me. And that only makes me swing harder and faster than before at the tree stump. It only makes me cry harder and scream louder. What am I screaming at? What am I crying for? What am I hacking at? Why am I so angry?
Life. I hate this life. And I hate myself. And nothing I do will ever change the way I am. That's why I am crying and screaming and swinging and wishing so badly that I could change. Or that I could die. Whichever is easier.
