I come home from a long day.
School issues, detentions I don’t deserve, college shit, soccer drama, family drama, get a job talk, and so much more just piled up and built itself a tower looming over my shoulders for a whole week. After having an argument with my mom about how I was getting home from practice and how I need to get a job, I walk upstairs to my room angrily.
I stomp my way up the stairs and slam my door shut. I kick off my shoes and I grab them in my hands. With all my might and all my anger I chuck both shoes one by one at anything I can’t hit. I blast my music and go to get undressed to take a shower after practice. I walk over to my desk, and I pull my hair out from it’s ponytail.
I look in the mirror that’s sitting aloof on my desk. What I do next scares me. I laugh. I laugh so hard that I find myself bending over to keep it together. I then suddenly lift my head back up, whipping my hair as I go, and there are tears in my eyes and my cheeks are red. With my music blaring and my door slammed shut, my laugh quickly turns to sobs. I grab at my hair and yank on it, messing it up and causing it to stick up in every direction. I try to stand but end up slowly sinking down to the floor; too weak to even hold myself up. I pull my knees to my chest and just sob and sob and sob. As I pull at my hair again and rock back and forth, I chant the never ending song that plays like a record in my head.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.” I begin to list off all the shit that’s happened to me. All the pain, all the sorrow.
“I can’t go to college. I can’t play soccer anymore. My ankle is still injured I can’t kick the ball, I can’t get a job because I play sports. I don’t know what to do. I’m not good enough. I’m too ugly. I’m too fat and my hair is a mess. I can’t get a boyfriend because I can’t even have a relationship with my father. I can’t I can’t I can’t.” And I go on and on for a good half an hour. No one comes. Not my sister, not my mother. It’s just me, alone on the floor, shaking and crying, pulling at my hair and rocking back and forth, feeling alone and hopeless. And it gets me thinking.
Maybe I am alone in the world. Maybe no one loves me. I’m so worthless and pathetic I can’t even keep it together. I continue to just babble words out until I settle down enough to make out coherent sentences. I lean against my bureau and close my eyes.
” I want to go home! I don’t want to be here anymore I don’t want to do this anymore! I want to go home!” And it broke my own heart to think it, let alone say it out loud, for I knew I was already at home in my room. But to beg like a child to no one but the four walls of my bedroom that I want to go somewhere safer than my own home is an all time low. It’s something children do when they’re playing on a playground and get hurt.
Sadly over my sobs and loud music I don’t hear my mom come up the stairs, so when she opens my door she find me shriveled up still in a ball rocking back and forth on the floor sobbing with my hair everywhere. Out of instinct I yell at her to get out and leave me alone as she holds what I assume are my clothes in her arms. She goes out for a minute and I dig my face into my shirt, embarrassed to be seen so weak, so vulnerable.
She comes back in and starts yelling at me for allowing myself to break down like that. She then tries to figure out why I’m crying, and even I can’t give her an answer. She then starts yelling at me again like “oh is it because your room is a pigsty or because you didn’t do your chores or because I yelled at you.” And so on and so on making me feel as if she doesn’t take me seriously. Out of embarrassment and vulnerability I throw my hat over my head so I look somewhat decent, hang my head, and back up until my back hits my bureau, tears still streaming down my face.
I always knew no one would understand me, but I never knew it’d hurt so much coming from the people I care about most.
Author Notes: Honestly it’s not good and also I didn’t know if that’s how u spelled bureau so I’m sorry if that’s it. Also I don’t even want any critiquing on how bad my writing is as long as you get the gist of it cause like it’s not exactly a short story it’s just a retelling of one.
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United States • 22 years old