Behind Close Doors

I was naive, I really was. I didn't grasp how all of this would affect me — I didn't even think about it. I could only focus on my sadness and the abyss I found myself sinking into. I never imagined it would end like this: so alone, with no direction in my life.

I isolated myself from everyone, feeling I wasn't enough. Self-destructive thoughts gave me no respite; I couldn't sleep. It was a constant whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that led me to seek ways to ease the pain, but nothing worked.

I spent five years of my life locked between four walls, with no social contact, meeting no one, hearing no other voices, seeing no sunlight. My health deteriorated drastically and dangerously — I wanted to die, I needed to.

Today I could laugh, or maybe cry, a bit of both I suppose. I still can't find ways to talk about it; I can't look my family in the eyes and tell them the truth, tell them what happened and why. It just happened and I couldn't prevent it, couldn't prevent being trapped that way. It was so easy and it had to happen. Today I think that, had I prevented it from happening, I would still be a person I no longer like. She died and I'm partly glad, but I never mourned her death. I didn't consider it a loss, but I think no one is aware that their old self is dying in the moment it happens, only when you put your life in retrospect and look back. You see that person no longer exists; maybe something remains here and there, but mostly they're just memories.

One would think you can't survive certain things, that when the moment comes we'll be paralyzed. I thought the same thing; truth is, I believed I wouldn't survive it, that I didn't deserve to keep existing if all that happened to me. I was wrong, I know that now. After five years locked away, I know it now. I suppose that counts for something, even if it took me a while to see it.

I have relapses from time to time and no, not with drugs. I admit I drink a glass of whatever's pleasant — I'm not a smoker and I don't love alcohol, but it helps me feel alive. Or well, it helps me gain momentum and continue enjoying life when I'm not feeling so upbeat, and I get up to at least make the most of the present. Anyway, my relapses are more mental and emotional. I try, I really have stayed positive, even though some days it's difficult.

I've already come of age, still locked up under his supervision. I want to flee from him, from his constant surveillance and overprotection. I have more freedom, but until I take my things and leave, he won't stop manipulating me and making me believe he cares — he just uses me for his benefit. I thought I could resist a bit longer, but I think I can't anymore. I must find anything that will help me escape from him.

Maybe I'll finally have the chance to be free; I cling to the faith that I'll be able to get out of here, or if not, I'll die within these four walls.