Accomplishment

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


OKAY PEOPLE!! So, it's my birthday in just over a month (my 20th, if you haven't already guessed by this piece of writing) and honestly I just had the world's biggest argument with my mom. I'll
never understand why everyone is so excited to turn 21, like that's 2 decades and a year. Wtf is so special about that???



Anyways, have this that came out in a splatter at like 1:30AM, it's not perfect and I may repost again later on with a few tweaks but here it is right now!!!

Submitted: March 27, 2018

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Submitted: March 27, 2018

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So my mom tells me that turning twenty isn’t an accomplishment like she has forgotten the days I would call her crying so hard I couldn’t take a single breath to tell her what was wrong. Like she has forgotten how tightly she held my hand in the hospital after I chased a bottle of painkillers with another bottle of vodka for the first time, and how her knees nearly buckled beneath her weight when the doctors told her I would survive. Like she has forgotten how I sliced my wrist open so deeply that even after three blood soaked hand towels, the cut just wouldn’t stop hemorrhaging. Like she has forgotten finding me collapsed in the corner of my room, so thin my ribcage was mistaken for piano keys.

Like she has forgotten the fear of not knowing if I would live beyond sixteen.

 

I have spent four soul-crushing, heartbreakingly long years trying so hard to resist the urge to pull the trigger. I have struggled with the military lines of whiskey bottles beneath my bed, the prescription bottles standing at attention in the medicine cabinet. I have wrestled with my food, forcing myself to keep it down. Pushing myself to eat just one more bite, to finish the meal, wipe the plate clean. I have fought the war inside my head, the one where the only person I am fighting is myself. The one where I have had to kill my own mind so that I could live.

I have stared down the barrel of a loaded gun and a sixteen year old girl stared back at me, she doesn’t look anything like me. But I recognize her face. I see the heavy bags beneath her eyes and I can feel my own throb. I see the vertical, angry scar on her wrist and my own itches. I see the way her clothes are too big for her thin frame, the way her hands shake, the bruises on her knees and her shins and her ankles, and I feel like I am gazing into a time portal.

 

 

So when my mom tells me that turning twenty isn’t an accomplishment, that turning twenty one is an even bigger deal, I straighten my back. I raise my chin. I look her dead in the eye.

If dragging myself up and out of a four year conflict with myself isn’t a fucking huge triumph, if forcing myself to not step off the edge of the bridge isn’t a fucking huge success, if pushing myself to take the first step to recovery isn’t a huge fucking feat – well, then my mom can go fuck herself. Because to me?

 

I’m fucking proud of me.


© Copyright 2020 faggot. All rights reserved.

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