MANIAC!
Bitterness, like acid, is something that hurts more the vessel that carries it more than the one it is poured out to.
Hearing this statement for the first time was not really impactful for me. It was like, listening to a song about heartbreak, as an example. You feel sorry for the artist maybe, wonder what he must have gone through to come up with such lyrics. But most of all, you will sing the song out loud. Now, when you go through heartbreak, the lyrics will make so much sense you'll be stunned into silence. The words will ring loud in your heart instead of from your mouth.
That is exactly what was happening to me. The words rang loud in my heart. Over and over. Not as a constant reminder, but as a taunt. A form of mockery. It's safe to say it drove me mad. Literally. That should explain why I was in an asylum.
My name is Scarlet, and this is the story of how I ended up becoming a maniac.
All stories like these begin normally, don't they? They begin with someone who's mentally and emotionally stable. But I don't think I was ever stable. I was constantly, in all the years of my life, pushed to total insanity. It all started with my mother. She had post-trauma denial. Her husband, my father, left her to be with her sister, my aunt. My aunt was my step-mom. My cousins were my step-siblings. My father was my uncle.
My mother did not stay long enough to watch this go on. She moved out with me and my brother. Now what was funny about the whole situation was the fact that my mother never cried, was never sad or depressed. What was scary was the fact that she never said it was an issue. She always told everyone who asked that it was just a phase they were going through. Even after they had 3 kids. Even after he filed for divorce. But not after he died of cancer.
That's when the madness began. Suddenly we looked just like our daddy and she beat us up for it. She would be quiet for days, lively for a few others, and completely hysterical for the next few. The funniest part was, she was lively and normal on the days people came to visit, so we would never get the chance to say we were in danger. We blamed the bruises on falling and the scars on fighting. But what would be blamed for what was going on in our minds and hearts?
We were never saved. She left instead. Died in her sleep. It was the first time in a long time that we saw her looking so peaceful. And that broke me the most. That my mother could only find peace in death.
We weren't young when she left, so we weren't taken in by the relatives. I wasn't willing to be taken in by aunty step-mom anyway. We moved in together. Steve and I. brother and sister, trying to make do of what life had decided to hand them. Until brother decided he would be like father. Until brother raped sister. Until brother wanted to spend the rest of his life with sister, as her husband.
I, like my mother, did not stay. Like my mother, I did not cry. Like my mother, I was never sad. I never said it was an issue when people asked. I just said it was a phase he was going through. What was different, though, was the fact that I remained the same when he died in a shoot-out.
I was taken in by a good Christian family, at the time when I ran away from my brother. They took me to school and I did not let them down. I did really well. I was valedictorian of my class. I went and got a good diploma. I went and got a good job. I went and got a good life.
What did I decide to do with this good life? I became an ambassador for mental and emotional health. I fought passionately against abuse in families. I spoke in seminars. I opened rescue centers. I sponsored many kids, gave them an education. I changed lives.
The mantra was cute: bitterness, like acid, is something that hurts more than the vessel that carries it more than the one it's poured out to.
It was about to become real. It was about to silence me.
I met a guy. You would think after all the things men had done to me and mine, I would be skeptical about a relationship.
We got married within six months of our meeting.
It was fine for the first few years. He was my rock. He helped me in my fight against what I had gone through. He was supportive of all my choices. He was patient with me.
Until we discovered I couldn't have kids. He tried to push it off. He really did, but he began to be irritable. He began to be detached. He began to leave me. He began to look like my father. He began to look like my brother. And that's when I began to look like my mother.
My mother was crazy. I was unhinged. I was manic. I was gone.
I made a hit list. I made a list of all the people that deserved to feel my wrath. And I killed them. All of them. All my cousin step-siblings. All the kids my brother left with his wife. And him.
I shot them, but when it came to him, a bullet wouldn't do. Only a knife would. I stabbed him over, and over, and over, and over. And I sat in his blood, stunned by the depth of that mantra.
Look what bitterness had done.
You can imagine the news headlines after: AMBASSADOR FOR MENTAL HEALTH GOES BERSERK IN A KILLING OF UP TO 10 PEOPLE. Or, FIGHTER AGAINST ABUSE FIGHTS HER OWN BATTLES IN COURT.
I wish I could suggest one for them: SHE FOUGHT THE MONSTERS OUTSIDE AND FORGOT THE ONES WITHIN.
I spend my days in a padded room, telling myself these words over and over again. Sometimes I'm quiet. Sometimes I'm lively. They let me out on these days. Some days though, I see my father and mother and brother. I see the ones I killed too. And these days, these days I regret not crying, not screaming, not letting it out. Because it's all I end up doing.
But the one thing I hope for is that in my time of sanity I helped someone deal with their rage before it did to them what it did to me.
The world had enough Scarlets.
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