Guarded: Autobiography
 

Chapter One: Silent Confession


“I want to show you something,” my English teacher's voice resounded in the empty school grounds, her voice filled with passion and warmth.
She darted off, back into her class, leaving me to think through what I wanted to tell her. I took a deep breath of the icy winter air, welcoming the sensation of being able to breath. The chiming of the thought's disapproval rang through my mind, berating even the idea of mentioning my secret. After all, it was nothing. This situation, in their mind, was a call for attention.


A small smile touched my lips as I watched her return with a thick book clutched in her hands. She flipped the page open to what I assumed to be a poem. ee cumming's poem. An interest began to grow, even though I had another reason to be here.
“See the use of the small letter i? ee cummings had such an inferiority complex that he made himself a small letter,” I let the words wash over me as she excitedly began to explain a poem to me, a poem she loved. One I would too learn to love.
“your slightest look will easily unclose me/ though i have closed myself as fingers,” she looked up at me. “Give me your hand. Curl it up like a fist.”
I obeyed her, letting my mind wonder over the reason why I found myself talking to the woman.. She took my small hand into her own manicured one, gently prising open my fist. I felt uncomfortable, but in that, allowed her to reach out to me. I observed her blue eyes consumed with her passion. The beauty of that passion ignited my own. Poetry became a fire that consumed my means of communication. Spoken word did not come easy so this was the perfect means of communication. Her focus changed, bringing my attention to sonnets. We explored the ins and outs of all its technicalities. I grasped the explanation as a challenge. As I put pencil to paper, I let the constant ten syllables create a rhythm to which I bound my mind.


Confession was a word lingering in my mind, awaiting at the tip of my tongue. I allowed her to continue her explanation, getting lost within my own thoughts. At the edge of my consciousness my secret persisted, demanding to be spoken of while another part of me was livid at the very idea of it being spoken. I lived in a foreign world, a foreign mind, feeling utterly lost. I could understand the fickleness of life, and even my own body turning against me, but the betrayal of my mind was beyond comprehension. Throughout my battles, I had always had my mind as an ally. It was easy to go through twelve operations with my mind on my side. When I found myself standing in the pantry, contemplating cutting open my own skin, I realised, much later, that my mind was turning against me, against my own body. I was, maybe still am, a fighter. I never imagined I would end up fighting myself. Soon I realised that silence was not my friend. What made me turn to my eccentric English teacher is anyone's guess. My eyes traced over Miss De'Ath's round face, lingering on the dimples of her smile and the strangely intense blue of her eyes. Her gaze caught my and the conversation rounded to what I was really there to talk about.
“What's wrong?” she asked softly, although her strong personality still forced its way through.
Even the force behind her words could not detract me from my mission. Going into surgery was easy compared to verbalising my feelings. I could almost laugh at the folly of it.


I cut myself? I'm a self harming? I'm an attention seeking brat who... I cut off my thoughts. This was far from an attention seeking exercise. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. Could I tell her why though? I remembered the alluring face of my abuser, and each touch. No, not abuser. It was my fault. The idea crippled my attempts to bring forth any words. A memory ripped through my skull, reminding my of sordidness. I couldn't say a word of that piece of the past. She would just have to assume I was the attention seeking brat. The idea was far from appealing but it was the best I could do. I tried to open my mouth. My heart fluttered nervously, pulling at its restraints. Regret filled my mind. It would be so much easier to walk away from this.


The words would not escape my lips. The last week flashed through my mind. The ridiculous, shallow letter was the first to surface. The letter I had put on my teacher's desk. It was an instant regret. I bit my lip in frustration, putting all my will into not fleeing. The silence of the empty school gently whispered in my ear as I looked up to a tree who's leaves resisted the winter's chill, slowing my heart for just one beat. The dull throbbing of my self inflicted wounds seemed to return as my mind figured out what to say of them. They were infamous tributes, unpleasant memoirs of the memory that had invaded my mind. What seemed like forever passed in a silent moment. My fingers went to the sleeve of my jersey, my mind wandering up my arm, visualising the extent of the damage. The crusted blood of the newer wounds materialised in my imagination. That's what I wanted to tell her, yet every word that could describe it seemed tacky and cheap and above all, attention seeking. It felt as though my throat was closing. Breath didn't come easily as I fought to each moment trying to remember to take in air. Frustration ripped through me and a thread of self dislike lifted its head again. Time passed sluggishly, painfully in a regard.
“I hurt myself,” I forced out finally.
The words themselves seemed very plain, incongruent with everything I was feeling. However, as much as my punitive side protested against it, I had to recognise the small victory. Little did I know that, that call for help would lead me on a journey filled with similar little victories and big defeats. Her distraction dissipated and once again her sharp eyes were on mine.


Concern, or what I perceived to be concern, emanated in my teacher's voice, “You need to tell me what's wrong. Sooner rather than later. Write me a letter. Arms soon become wrists.”
The urgency that filled her voice touched me. I nodded, overpowered by something that wouldn't let me speak. With a steely determination, I vowed to write down what was truly gnawing at me, spurred on by the idea that she truly cared.


The chill awakened the words that had burrowed themselves away in the moment I needed them. I slowly got up to feel myself being embraced in the arms of my new confidence. My mind wandered as I hugged back, and separated from my body. While the gesture was appreciated, I was far from sure about physical contact. My defenses softened a little, and I enjoyed the sincerity behind it. As I left, the weight of my school bag was unapparent. My footsteps trudged the same path they did everyday. However, it felt different. I felt different. I felt light.


The letter. I struggled with the idea to disclose things I had never imagined talking about. In fact, I distinctly remember telling myself that I would never talk about it. Suppose writing was far better than talking about it. The lined paper in front of me blurred slightly as I struggled about where to start or how much to disclose. The smiling face of my teacher lingered in my minds eyes. My mind struggled with the concept of why I chose the bohemian woman, who's unique joy radiated across the class, so long as her mood was good. I slowly put the pencil to my paper, a fire to please another finally put to a clean use. The content skimmed lightly over the surface of myself. Childish immature wording littered the page that landed in the hands of my confident. Resurfacing suppressed memories was not the easiest thing I had done. I settled down for sleep, feeling a little less caged than before.


“You trust me, Sarah?” her voice was desperate, pleading with something deep in my soul. “You trust me right?”
She lent over to touch me and I flinched away, instinct ruling over common sense. Rationally, I did not believe she was going to hurt me. Touch was meant to be beautiful, connecting people who lived in otherwise separate worlds. Although we could perhaps never live in each other's worlds or truly empathise, touch was a means of closing the distance just for a moment. Yet, caught in a moment where I had exposed myself in a vague letter, it seemed dangerous. She pulled back a little then slowly placed her hand on my shoulder. I nodded numbly, aware that I would do anything to please her. A sharp twinge suggested that this was where our two paths would split again. The idea terrified me. A small amount of panic arose in my heart. I wasn't quite ready to let go of the first person I trusted enough to speak to.
“We need to go talk to Ms Simpson,” she must have seen the doubt and confusion upon my face at the mention of the school counselor as she quickly added, “I trust her.”


She slowly coaxed me out of her classroom, linking her arm through mine. My legs felt robotic, moved only by her desire to help me and my desire to please her. She steered me into the counselor's office, swapping a few words with the woman. A small unwilling part of me urged me to flee the room or close up completely. I numbly sat on the couch, awaiting a conversation I hadn't envisaged. Ms Simpson turned her attention to me. I couldn't concentrate on what she was saying, but the tone was gentle. She wanted to know what was wrong from what I picked up. I turned my eyes to Ms De'Ath desperately. I really didn't want to speak. I glanced down at the letter I had written her that was still clutched in her hands.
“Can she read the letter?” I asked softly, feeling unable to speak the words.
The letter was handed over and I remained in a state of disbelief. I watched uncomfortably as the counselor's eyes skimmed over the letter that I had only intended for the eyes of my confident. I keep my eyes of the back of my silent confession, terrified for the consequences.

this is amazing!

i would love to read more when your ready

I LOVE IT! It's amazing, you're a great writer (: *hugs*

This is amazing! <3 You're such a good writer; I'd love to read more :)

And I love your sig by the way :P

This is amazing. This is basically the thing that happened to me..

Thanks for all the kind words. Cuddles! Unfortunately, my pc is going in to be fixed so I will be without it for a few days. Will update as soon as possible!

Wow amazing would love to read more

An amazing and talented piece of writing, would love to read more :)

Chapter Two: Consequences
 

Managed to get hold of a small laptop while my pc is in for repairs. Thanks for all your nice comments! Sorry if this part is a bit slow and boring. There is a possible "graphic" SI part, so be careful. Thanks for reading! Let me know if I must continue.


Every second of the wait was a painful reminder to my deed. I glanced at the door, flinching for every sound behind the door. Ms Simpson's eyes glanced up from the paper, settling upon my own. A small question lingered within them.
“What do you mean 'arms become wrists'?” her voice was soft, and I honesty would have preferred her to make the assumption herself. I sighed inwardly, than chose to recycle the words I had used the day before. They seemed to be the lesser evil of the possible selection.
“I hurt myself,” the words came easier this time, slipping quicker from my lips.
“Can I see?”
Her response threw me completely. I definitely did not want her to see. I glanced up at her, wide eyed. A second rolled by as I contemplated my position. Her words had been a request, although, in my ears it felt like a command. Compliantly, I rolled up the sleeve of my jersey for just a second then pulled it down again. Sympathy that radiated from her eyes, sympathy that I wasn't ready to accept.
“Will you go get some anti-septic cream from the nurse?” she turned her attention to Miss De'Ath.
In what I perceived to be relief, she quickly got up and ran to the nurse. I immediately felt guilty. There was no doubt in my mind that I had caused her a major inconvenience.

I looked down at my hands, trembling with anxiety. Without my confident, I felt exposed to my raw emotions and the unknown territory of the school counsellor. My eyes kept returning to the door, hoping that Miss De'Ath would return at any moment.
“Memories can really be a rough thing, hey honey,” the voice of the school counsellor brought my attention back to the conversation.
I nodded stiffly, defiance taking a steel grip in my thoughts. The memory she was talking about had little or even no impact in my life. It was the one where I had been rushed into the emergency room when I was five. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about it until I wrote the letter. I looked up to meet her gaze in order to stare down the sympathetic eyes that were regarding me, just as the door swung open again, to which a flinched away. A caught a glance of a strand of dark hair which I followed to the eyes of the person I was awaiting. Peace settled upon my raging emotions, masking them for just a moment. She pushed a metal tube into my hands, smiling softly.

Gingerly, I clasped my hand around it and slowly unscrewed its lid. I might as well have been taking my clothes off. The exposure would have felt the same. The cream felt cold on my fingertips. I gently slipped my hand under my sleeve in order to preserve what dignity I had left. The sting of the disinfectant soothed my mind, allowing the recollection of the actual deed to surface. Perhaps it would have been better to keep it to myself. I let the words of the counsellor vaguely enter my consciousness. She asked about my relationship with my family and my daily activities. To me, all those things seemed irrelevant and it felt as though she was prying. I frowned, answering each question in a word or a short sentence. Even if I had wanted to elaborate, I simply couldn’t. It was none of her business anyway. The reminder why I was doing it all remained silent and stiff next to me, occasionally looking at me. A gentle compassion radiated from her, soothing my frantic fears. The lightness that I had received from uttering the three very simple words was beginning to recede. I longed to find myself awaken to nothing more than a horrible, yet captivating, nightmare.


“Have you told your mother?” the voice of the school counsellor brought my attention back to the conversation. I frowned, tightening my lips slightly at the thought.
“I don't want to,” my voice was soft, but I let it be heard that under no circumstances would my mom be dragged into this.
“Why Honey? With my daughter I’d want her to tell me,” her words were soft, ever so gently trying to coax me into a path I would not go down even if it were my last option.
“She makes everything about her. I am not going to tell her,” I stared her down as best as my gentleness and timid demeanour would allow.
A horrible sensation swelled in my gut. People were not such creatures to bypass procedure through compassion for the individual, especially when they thought themselves to be right. I could see that she thought I was wrong. I wasn’t though. I realised my family’s personalities better than those looking in and I felt infuriated that she even considered herself to be an expert in my mother. To my surprise, I watched her nod.




“I think you should go see a psychologist,” it was more of an order than a request. “Her name is Penny. She is very nice.”
I honestly didn’t care if she was nice or not. I had found the person I wanted to talk to in Miss De'Ath. My problems weren’t all that big after all. I was merely attention seeking, as there was clearly nothing wrong with me. I wasn’t crazy either. Shrinks were for crazy people, right? Panic flooded in again, beating against the walls that confined it. Showing emotion was a weakness I was not prepared to show in front of these people.
“No,” I gasped out, unable to control that fear.
“Then I’m going to have to tell your mother,” her smile twisted as she caught me in a very difficult place. “If you go to Penny and tell her about the cutting then I will not tell your mother. Also, I need you to stop cutting.”
Resentment filled me. I hated ultimatums. It was a childish method of control employed by adults who should know better. However, I didn’t have a choice in this matter. In this game of cards, the counsellor held them all.
“Fine,” I whispered, hiding my resentment well. The conversation moved to sorting out the technicalities and I remained as pleasant as I could act.

Not cutting was harder than I thought it would be. The prize of keeping it from my family did not seem to be a big enough motivation to suppress my emotions further behind the walls I had built to restrain them. The toll of the last few days began to resurface, cracking the edge of my mask. I had always been the good girl, the one with what seemed to be the perfect life. The heat of the shower burnt pleasantly and the water tumbled down my back. A distant euphoria touched my mind, ebbing in and out like the flow of water. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. Instinctively my hand reached for my saving grace, pressing in to the soft underside of my arm. I paused, taking a deep breath, before sliding it across my arm. The flesh gave way and severed beneath the aggressive force. The sting surfaced angrily as the tender skin protested against the violation. For a moment nothing happened, then the skin spilt and the warm liquid brought the soothing relief. I ran my eyes across the fairly superficial cuts, which only tore off little chunks of skin. Dissatisfaction radiated from my mind. At the time, the feeling was minor, as though it too, deep down, was horrified at the lengths I had driven myself to. One thing remained; I’d need a better weapon. Eventually, my sane mind chirped, desperately trying to keep my mind together. What it meant by eventually was never. With the juvenile destructive need fed, I retired to my room, hiding the new wound beneath long sleeves.
Tell someone! Tell someone! The chant of my rational side refused to let me sleep. It desperately fought the turn of the road within my life. Frustrated, and exhausted, I picked up my phone, sending a plea of help to Miss De'Ath. Finally, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The following day I wished I had never sent that call for help. I deserved to be alone and I was far too unskilled with people to understand the finery of their day to day interactions. I felt like an alien to the strange customs of the world around me. Sitting in the English class, I was surprised to find the phase tutor requesting my presence. Numbly, I got up out of my seat and followed her to her office.
“Sarah, you know why you’re here,” her voice was ever so soft, holding a small gentleness I was surprised to discover.
I nodded in response, all too aware of my current situation. Once again, I found myself beating myself up for the need to find help. I found myself in a blur of happenings. My mother was going to be called in. I swallowed the dread, hiding it behind defiance. My mother was crying. Each tear that fell down her cheeks inspired a slap of guilt from my own mind. Out of choice, I returned to class, hoping the whole ordeal was nothing short of a dream. That afternoon, I found my feet winding down the corridor to Miss De'Ath’s class. Instead of a warm welcome, I was confronted with an angry gaze. My mind desperately tried to block out her angry words, pulling into itself. What remained clear was that I never wanted to open up to anyone again. It was a stupid mistake I was punished for. I withdrew further into myself, relinquishing control to my self harm and destructive thoughts. One weight that was lifted was that now, technically, I didn’t have to tell that psychologist I was cutting nor did I have to stop. After all, what did it matter now that I was officially a screw up? That thought lit the weeks to come in a warped light. I built a creed upon those reactions: Don’t tell. “It’s our little secret.”

Oooh this is brilliant, more please

wow! More, please. It's good.

You are an amazing writer, I would love to read more of your story!
I'm hooked already! =]

this is great, you're a fantastic writer, would love to read more

Wow, this is amazing hun <3

Reading all that made me nearly cry.

Chapter Three: Only fools and Charlatans
 

Thanks for all your nice comments. I really appreciate them. You guys are all amazing. Cuddles.



This only half of the chapter. Unfortunately, I am struggling to remember my first session so my old psychologist has promised to send me the session's notes in a day or so. Will finish this chapter as soon as possible.


I wallowed in my self destructive behaviour, bucking at every mention of the psychologist. The deep satisfaction of choosing not to reveal my secret to the unknown women spurred on a quiet rebellion whose only wish was that my personal life be left alone. The preconceived notions I placed on her restricted my idea of her, deciding that I wouldn’t like her. My appointment was slowly encroaching upon and I wanted nothing less than to carry on living the secret. Seeking help only meant being passed into other hands when the going got tough and then forgotten about. I managed to destroy my relationship with Miss De'Ath further, breaking myself off into complete isolation. My perceived idea that she resented me allowed me to further the distance, even with a part of me desperately trying to hold onto the relationship. Behind my rebellion, my rational side waited for the anger to subside. It on the other hand was curious to this development, this psychologist. Doctors were a common thread in my life, poking and cutting open my body, but a head doctor would surely have other methods to dissect me and discover my illness. Eventually, all of me came around to that thought and anticipation replaced the defiant fear.

The drive seemed longer than the actual distance, each kilometre pulling at my nerves. I stared blankly out the windscreen, following the familiar path of Monument Road. The old, twisted trees remained the same, but looked far more malevolent that I had remembered. I followed their shape with my eyes, observing the different levels of distortion. The scene was similar to that of a horror film. Dead leaves littered the sidewalks, testament to the autumn passed. Although the sun was shining, the sky seemed grey; the colour washed out. I sighed inwardly and settled further into my seat as the lazy winter sun slowly ascended. We arrived at a 1960s looking house, devoid of much character. I paused for a moment, wishing to stay within the safe confines of the car. A sense of compliance pushed me out of the car and set my feet through the parking lot into a clinical looking waiting room. As my mom went to the counter to announce my arrival to a rather stern looking receptionist, I settled myself into a rather characterless chair, letting my eyes dance over the scene. Another person was waiting an immediately I assumed we had gotten our time wrong. Unnecessary anxiety filled my body as I quickly glanced towards my mother. I took the forms from her hands, deciding that I fill it in myself. I asked the occasional question like my mother’s identity number and the medical aid number, allowing the occupation to distract me from what was about to happen.

Once I had done that, I searched the table for a magazine and allowed the routine of doctor’s waiting rooms to take over my mind. I flipped through the pages, occasionally stopping to observe a picture or read part of an article. It was all an act though. Subconsciously, my mind inspected the room and assessed my situation. The setup was very impersonal as even the touch of the doctors seemed vacant, which of course made sense as this was a collective practise. A small passageway led away from the cold, uninviting waiting room to the room where I would be spending my next hour in. I imagined what Penny would look like. My mind placed an old, cruel face to her name, fitting quite nicely with the crude building. That idea in itself was haunting and I pushed it away, focusing on the desire to have someone with a gentle face to walk down that corridor to fetch me; Someone who I would come to trust. The other person was fetched and I was left to wait in the foreign territory for my own.

My eyes never were far from the corridor, so when a woman with reddish brown hair made her appearance I was all too aware. Her face was kind and I was instantly comfortable, against the desires of my fearful heart.
“Sarah Ellens?”
I turned my face to her at the sound of her warm voice, still feeling slightly unsure about the whole situation. It would have been far easier if she fitted the idea of the cruel psychologist. At least then I’d have an excuse not to let her into my life. I got up, and timidly approached her. She gave me her name and led me down the corridor into her room. In stark contrast to the waiting room, colour assaulted my senses, lulling me into a sense of security. All the while, I kept the idea that because she was paid to listen to me, she would never truly grow to care about me.

I can't wait to read more of this! =]

I love the way you express yourself. *Nods*

Just caught up on your last two updates, brilliant :)

Amazing update, can't wait to read the rest when you put it up

Chapter Three: Only fools and Charlatans Cont.
 

Thanks for your kind words. I really treasure them. Sorry about this being vague. I really struggle to remember sessions.


I settled myself in a seat, once sure that I was not taking her position. Satisfied with my placement in this new world, I allowed for the idea that my occupancy in this room would have to exist for a few months at the shortest, to at least allow for my mother to believe that I have been saved from my own insanity. She, of course, had to start the session. My sense of survival memorised each object in the room and its placement, committing the environment to memory. My eyes stayed longest on the bamboo shoot, fascinated with its structure and the clear, reflective water it was growing in. Life, other than the psychologist and me, created a sense of serenity within me. It too, in fact, was a poor creature caught up in a place it hadn’t chosen. In a way, I could draw parallels with the plant and myself. For one, plants don’t choose where they’re planted, and they’ve just got to hope like hell there’s enough water and sunlight to survive. I hadn’t chosen to come here, and all I could do is that this situation wouldn’t destroy me further. I definitely was not going to trust Penny with that amount of power over me. Instantaneously I realised the greatest ally in that room was that bamboo shoot, trapped in that tiny little pot.

I turned my focus back to my forced company, bringing forth my exuberant, bubbly personality as best I could. I followed her comments with witty, prickly remarks, intent on deflecting each question whose purpose it was to probe into my life. As such, our conversation continued in a verbal joust, my answers acting at a defence against what I deemed to be her attacks. While I was struggling with the idea of being in therapy, I gave in to the idea that I liked Penny and perhaps, under different circumstances, I would have attempted to open communications with her. While I was desperate and scared, it was not enough to override the fact that I did not want to be there.As our conversation progressed, I realised with a breath of triumph, I hadn’t told her my incriminating secret. That way I could still hold onto the power my previous confidents had stripped from me. While I still felt oblige to tell her, as I had promised, I couldn’t physically form the words. Instead I filled her in with trivial aspects of my life. While they made up an integral part of expressing my personality, the information was fairly safe. I mentioned my foot operations, deeming it as safe territory.

The conversation moved through my brief accounts of history, my family, and my interests. With delight I discovered that horses were a common ground as well as poetry and writing. What perhaps was the most encouraging thing about her being a horse person, perhaps she’d manage to get through to me. A part of me longed for a place in which to heal, desperate for some hold upon life. Satisfied that the conversation had taken a turn in my direction, I leapt upon the chance to convince her that I had my life under control. I desperately tried to worm my way out of therapy with the claim that because of my poetry, I had the ability to control my life. It was a foolish conviction. I only had to look at my arms to make that deduction. She too, was not naive enough to fall for the brilliant, bright smile I had used to enforce this idea. Even with such safe territory, the words felt sticky in my mouth, unwilling to divulge any information. I felt like a charlatan, selling myself superficially; the false product. At that moment, however, it felt only safe enough to give her the tiniest bit of information. As I left the session, although I had found a person I liked, relief settled over me as well as a blanket of desperation and isolation.

Wow really good

amazing!

Amazing update!

Can't wait to read moreeeeee. =]

Chapter Four: Religion and Soft Science
 

Sorry this has taken forever. It has been difficult to write this story as I have to remember things I have blocked out. Sorry it's short. Will try harder.

I took the next few sessions as a test of my patience and, I guess, was of hers too. I filled her in with meaningless titbits about my life. Cornered, and afraid, I resorted to taking up the defence. The most I told her was that my memories triggered a voice that beat me, hurting more than any cut could. Those thoughts, they were my own fault. I waited for the opportunity to bolt the system. I allowed the shadowy winter months to consume my thoughts. I couldn’t see myself telling another person that I caused a good person to turn bad; that I allowed someone to give into his or her lustful desires; the desires that I caused. I swallowed the grimy feeling, the guilt, and each time turning my determined eyes to the gentle hazel eyes that were surveying me. A shadow crept over me, as I burrowed further into my writing occasionally glancing up to realise the depth of the hole I was digging for myself. I was disappointed with myself, disappointed with those around me with the alleged desire to help me.

After a few of these sessions had passed, I was granted the chance Penny personal questions. I had a week to prepare what I would ask her. Perhaps her own frustration had her resort to breaking the bonds of a professional relationship. I secretly wondered if I had driven her to desperate methods. When I got there, faced with opportunity to get to know her as a person, I froze.
“I don’t have any questions,” I muttered, not trusting my voice.
I did though. I wondered whether she knew pain. Why was she a psychologist? Would it be a possibility that she would grow to care for me? I forced myself to look into those gentle caring eyes and squirmed with guilt. I felt as though I was really wasting her time.

I let my thoughts dissipate as I watched the road wind closer to my destination. The days were lengthening and winter’s grip was beginning to lighten. The car slowed as it arrived at Zillah, the local pastor’s house. While I wouldn’t trust people, perhaps something that I had been brought up with might serve as some kind of grounding. Maybe it would help me regain some of my innocence; perhaps restore some of the good I had caused myself to lose. I was beginning to doubt I deserved the redemption. I leapt lightly from the car and was greeted with a smile by a short, red headed woman and the sharp, excited bark of a Yorkshire terrier.
“Hello Gorgeous,” her arms wrapped around me in a tight hug and I hesitantly returned it.
I was glad that she was such an outspoken person as I felt tension cutting off my ability to speak. I instantly regretted my decision to find another path to my self cleansing.
“Come inside.”
I followed her timidly, taking in my surroundings. The house resembled organised chaos, putting me somewhat at ease. She beckoned to the golden orange couches and meekly, I made my way to sit on one of them. The dog, Henry, jumped up lightly and curled up next to me. The presence of the animal reassured a part of me, and I absently scratched his head, more for my benefit than for his enjoyment.

I pulled on my bright personality, my biggest defence. Mingled in with it, I added a genuine curiosity. Unable to rely of my own strength, I had the options of religion or psychology. Perhaps both had a point or perhaps neither did. What this also gave me was a chance to start again. My naivety when it came to dealing with people that I hadn’t seen before was quickly becoming apparent. Our conversation remained neutral, brushing over life and generally stayed with her as the topic of conversation. The occasional question from my side spurred her on to talk. Her opinionated nature put up no protest to my lack of speech. I walked away from that without a mention of my psychological pain, or the pain I was inflicting upon myself. A part of me smiled smugly at the regaining of power.

Chapter Five: Ambivalence

Nervously, I arrived outside the old building that had formally been the local post office. It was one of the older buildings in Irene, I assumed. It was beautiful though. I made my way up through the iron gates and looked into the art gallery and shop. A dark haired, intense looking woman, named Elmarie, greeted me, allowed me to purchase my first lot of art supplies and led me over to a large table with paint splattered everywhere. In places, the splats of paint had taken form to a beautiful picture. Quite a few girls and one guy surrounded the table already.
“You can make yourself something to drink down there,” she began, directing my attention to the corner of the studio. As much as I would have enjoyed a hot cup of tea, I restrained myself, too nervous to make myself at home. I settled in a seat near the window and waited to begin my first lesson.
“What is art?” she began, directing her unfathomable eyes to my own. They seemed to glow with a contained passion.
“I suppose art is an expression of who we are and how we feel,” I started slowly, taken aback at the seemingly simple question. “It’s different for every person.”
She nodded, and smiled slightly. I felt proud of my answer and a small excitement grew. She explained the properties of lines and that the most important thing to remember was where the light was coming from in the picture. I was starting to settle into the idea of art.
“I want you to draw these feelings,” she started up again, “but no symbols, just lines.”
She wrote out a list of words and told me to begin. Slowly, desiring to please, I began to craft out each word, focusing greatly on the ‘depressed.’

“I really like this,” she praised when she saw that specific representation. “There’s a lot of emotion in it.”
I watched her gently trail her fingers over the dark, thick line upon the page which faded into nothing at the end. She was silent for a moment before she turned the page to the next. She continued to look through all my lines then got out a wine bottle for me to draw. She taught me how to measure the proportions and the importance of it, and how to construct the lines before allowing me to continue. I drew carefully, not satisfied until it was in the exact shape of the bottle. I ignored the chattering of the other students who all seemed very relaxed with each other and withdrew into my drawing, far too shy to join them.
“Here’s my bottle,” the younger boy next to me said, breaking into my silent world. A kind, helpful smile touched his lips. I returned it and glanced down at the well drawn bottle. A competitive envy spurred me on to draw better, just to prove that I belonged in the class. I pushed the strange thought out of my mind.
“Wow,” I replied, “it’s really good.”
We chatted offhandedly for a little bit before I allowed myself to be absorbed into my own world again. It was a start. Finally satisfied, I allowed her to look. Happy with my result, she placed a glass in front of it and told me to draw further, reminding of how to use proportions of the bottle to my advantage. The end of the two hour lesson brought me to the basic outline of my drawing. Next week she’d teach me the shading. Elated and happy, I left, feeling I had some control somewhere. At least that was going better then my sessions with Penny.

I allowed the sessions to be superficial, countering each skilled question from Penny with vague answers and facetious remarks. Occasionally, I dared to open up a little. I gazed at her nervously, feeling very vulnerable and stupid. The feeling was one that ruled most of my interaction with people.
“I don’t want to talk to someone that’s paid to care,” I said stubbornly, adamant in my beliefs that no one could possibly care for me. In fact, I hardly dared even to try to belief that there was a possibility that Penny would grow to care about me. Yet, it was the one thing I desired. I just wanted to be loved again. I felt torn. A part of me wanted to let her in, ever so badly. Yet I knew myself well enough to know that I would let her take advantage of me. I did not believe she would, but I deserved to have people use me for their own happiness.
“Have you ever thought that people do jobs because they love them, not for the money?” she asked me softly, with a hint of a challenge in her eyes. I however, perceived it to be a glint of triumph. Not trusting myself to read her expression, I shifted uncomfortably. I did not want to believe what she was saying, and I did at the same time. The two opposing emotions were beginning to tear me in two and I wished to slowly crawl away and hide, not just from the world, but also from myself. Over the next little while, I allowed myself to touch on a few genuine topics. I had a firm belief that I had to be the good client, which did not inconvenience Penny, or make her angry. I certainly was not allowed to disappoint her, which lead me to disappointing myself.

Better, for me to suffer than her, I reasoned throughout the process. I could not allow myself to be real. Caught up in the perception that I was a bad, unworthy person, I did not risk showing me to her. Instead, I put on the mask, as best I could, of the person I thought she’d want to see. The focus of the sessions for me was not myself but her. It was all about pleasing my psychologist. We did touch on the subject and although she tried to convince me that she would rather see the real me, I found myself unable to let her in. Frustrated I began to talk of leaving. I had stopped cutting regularly and just slumped into my dark world of brokenness. I dare to say I was content there. Perhaps I was unwilling to change. Feelings of intense dislike for myself shifted through most of my interaction with the world. Everything seemed grey and uninviting and I forgot how to live. I pulled away from the closest of my friends and fell in deeper with two girls who were not good for me. My friendship with them was nothing more than a show. I had isolated myself so much that I did not have many real friends.

The only place I felt happy was at art. I was progressing with leaps and bounds and began a journey I had always been scared to take in case I was not good enough. Here I was, doing just fine at something. Also, I began to make friends with the other girls, chatting away eagerly and happily. Our conversations were never deep and allowed me to relax. I made some good friends there, those that really understood a part of me. It helped that we all shared the same talent. Surprisingly, I found them all warm up to me easily. I often found myself blushing and mumbling awkwardly at the compliments I received and the possessive friendships I obtained. It was as though they saw something good in me and wanted to keep me as close as possible. I was touched at their genuine care. Slowly, I felt good enough for them too. I was the oldest girl in the group, the rest a year younger than I was. Stella was a middle aged woman. Friendly and warm, she also built each of the young artists in the group up, taking a keen interest in me. We never really spoke of anything outside of art in my life and I grew to be comfortable around her. She was a bright, spontaneous woman who adored every person in the group. As November approached, Elmarie announced that there would be an exhibition. Excited, I began to work ferociously on my first ever painting that was actually fairly good. I invited Penny along, as a small attempt to allow myself to let her into my life. I found creating something out of nothing exhilarating. I felt almost good enough next to my fellow artists. Slowly, it became less about competing to earn my place among them to an easy friendship.

My reluctance to return to therapy and the constant feeling that Penny could not possibly care about me slowly ground my appointments with Penny to a half. Spring had descended upon the world around me, although I found myself freezing within my own winter. Occasionally, I would realise that I was pushing everyone away from me. After a long, frustrating therapy session with Penny, there came the usual question of when the next session would be. I froze, feeling unsure of whether to come back. This time, Penny invited me to make the next appointment. Something inside me leapt at the opportunity to be alone again, which drowned out the small need for support. My small fifteen year old mind finally called the sessions to a stop.
“I’m not sure if I should come back,” I said finally. “Maybe can I think about it for while?”
“Sure,” Penny said, smiling warmly. “You are welcome to email, sms or call me to make a time.”
“Can I still talk to you talk on email?” I asked tentatively, not willing to give up the whole connection with her. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I had grown quite fond of her. I left the session feeling both free and chained up in my own little world. I kept myself from emailing her for a few days, finally giving in to my uncertainty about my decision, and voiced my ambivalence about returning to therapy. I sat myself down timidly at my desk, quickly locating my email account. I hurriedly typed out two lines of incoherent babble and pressed the send button before I backed out. I shut my email and waited with anxiety for a reply. I hoped she would not hate me. When I did gather the courage to look for a reply, I was surprised to find one. While my quick call of uncertainty was short, my heart squeezed painfully as I read her longer, poignant, and very intuitive reply.

Hi Sarah

It sounds like you are really in a tough place right now. You want to come back and maybe you even want to talk through things in a more open way than you have been able to do before. But you don't know what I will do with what you have to say, and you don't know how I will be with you afterwards. I wonder if you think that talking to me about painful stuff will change the way I am with you? Or will make me think differently about you? What kind of information do you imagine that you would need from me (or about me) in order to decide if you are safe with me? These are difficult questions, and maybe there are no answers; maybe it is like religion - all a matter of faith and trust!

You say that you need to know where you stand with me before you decide. I'm not sure what you mean by this, but I am curious to know what you think I think of you?

Penny

I reread the mail several times before I thought to reply. I could not tell her the truth. If I did tell her the painful stuff, I was sure that she’d hate me. I was sure that she’d see the bad, dirty little girl I was. The truth was that no amount of information could make me feel safe with her. I could not feel safe with anyone, not even myself. I did not deserve her hidden invitation of a safe place in therapy. I thought, that she thought, I was an attention seeking brat who was wasting her time. I could not tell her that. Instead, I scribble an immature letter back, with little attention to punctuation and articulation.

I give you two lines and I get back nine. Quite funny really.

I want someone to talk to but I don't know if this is the right place. I don't know what to expect from you because I don't know you that well and it's your job to help. I need to know if you want to help but I don't want an answer like of course I do it's my job..ect. I don't know what I think you think of me that's why I am confused. Maybe I just need a holiday and I'll be able to think again.

Maybe a just need a different approach to this. A more do rather than speak because if I just say I will I probably won't. Maybe you’re right. Just a leap of faith.

Sarah

True to form, Penny responded quickly. I was truly impressed by her punctual correspondence. One line stood out from the email, reiterating her previous point. However, I could not dare to hope that there was any truth in it even though my logical side saw the validity of the statement.

PS People don't only do things in their jobs BECAUSE it is their job. Sometimes they do what they love and just happen to get paid for it as well. Which is what I hope you will also be able to do one day. Because that is the only way to really live.

I ran my eyes over the statement once more and almost gave in to my desire to return. Instead, I stealed myself, was using the age old method of procrastination. For now, we would talk over email and one day, perhaps, I would return.

i like it

It's all very good
I really hope you give us more soon

Oooh this is really good, more please?

Sorry it takes so long. Don't know if you still wanna read.



Chapter Six: Two Broken Souls

Although connecting with people was never my strong point, I always had had a special connection with animals, especially horses. November had come, filled with life bringing storms. The grass, once a dusty golden, had transformed into lush green, spotted everywhere with a variety of colourful wild flowers. My favourite time of year lifted my spirits. I smiled to myself as I watched the veld flash by in a brilliant array of colour, contrasted against a brilliant blue sky which harboured large, grey blue cumulous clouds threatening more rain. The earth itself was utterly saturated by the water and puddles still spotted the ground. The heat was rising, and soon the water would be gone, if only for a little while. I leapt lightly from the car as it slowly stopped on the sodden dirt parking lot at my riding school. As I glanced around, a new horse caught my eye. A sorry looking chestnut stood furthest from the entrance of a small paddock. We had arrived early for my lesson, so I lightly made my way across to the poor creature. As I reached its paddock, it glanced at me, disinterested.
“Come here boy,” I called out softly, clucking to him. He flicked his ear in my direction, unperturbed. Yet slowly, he began to move in my direction. His face held a long, thin white strip, just off centre and not very straight. I slowly ran my hand over his knobbly face, holding a scar in one or two places. I frowned, as I looked him over. His coat was dull and his ribs were clearly visible. He was scrawny and completely without muscle. His two white socks that adorned his hind legs were coated in mud. He must have been ancient. He certainly looked it. The gelding quickly lost interest and moved back to the back of the paddock, looking utterly separated from the world. I felt drawn to him though. Perhaps it was his utter disinterest in the rest of the world and me, which spurred me on to try connecting with him.
I hurried to my lesson, set to ride a very defiant little grey called Remus. I had always enjoyed his difficult nature but today my thoughts were stuck on the skinny horse.
“What breed is the new horse?” I asked my instructor, Monica, convinced he was a Boerperd, a local breed of horse renowned for its hardiness.
“A thoroughbred,” she replied, much to my surprise. He was such a small creature, only about 15.3hh, much smaller than the other thoroughbreds around the stable yard. “Went into the veld for a year after his career as a racehorse. He ‘s about seven years old.”
“And his name?” I persisted, trying to find out more about the dejected animal. I was surprise he was that young.
“We don’t know yet. We don’t have his papers,” she replied simply. “We should be getting them this Tuesday. You should come groom him this week and walk him around.”
Eagerly, I accepted the offer. For the next week or so, I devoted my afternoons to the gelding. He was a lot stronger than he looked and dragged me across the arena in an adamant desire to find greener grass. Much to my dismay, he ignored treats like carrots and apples; however, it was not something I had not encountered before. All the ex racehorses that had found their way to my stable yard had not ever been given treats.


My parents had always told me that we could not afford a horse in case we moved to England. They feared that if they committed themselves to an animal with such a high maintenance, that they would be tied down here forever. The sad fact was that my father tied us all down from living our lives with the constant threat of leaving. We were all waiting to live our lives. Adamant that the poor chestnut was the horse for me, I worked out how much it would cost to half stable him. While that only meant I could ride him three times a week, it also meant that if we did leave, he would still be owned by Monica. Triumphant with my calculation I presented my findings to my parents. After a few days of thought, they came up with their decision. While I could half stable him, I had to give up singing. Triumphant at my success, I gave into the concession easily. I did not enjoy singing that much anyway, especially the pressure to do competitions. I did not feel myself good enough to sing in front of people anyway. The relief was evident, as suddenly I became the more the happy go lucky child that I used to be. I spent most of my days up at the stables sitting by the horse. I was informed his name was Redondo, meaning rounded, or harmonic. I was not to ride him until he had his shows put on and the vet had checked him out. Monica feared he was permanently lame due to being unshod and left out in the veld. Fickle, vulnerable breeds, Thoroughbreds needed a lot of attention and care.


I rested my back against the wooden pole of his paddock, looking out across the rose arena. The day was a silent one, creeping gently forward with no haste. My mind was drawn into an intense silence, and I regarded the world with a cool indifference. The day was slow, ebbing in and out of my perceptions. The day was one to be internalised, analysed then to be allowed to drift off into the meadows of forgotten memories. In all other shorter words: It was a day that was like every other day. I had started off her day with the morning call of my alarm clock, to which I had responded by hitting snooze and turning over to doze for just a few more minutes. This cycle repeated itself a few more times before I had managed to coax her lethargy to lift. As I had sat up, I had tried to grasp the fleeting tendrils of my dreams. Unsuccessful in remembering of detail that had once been as vivid as reality I left my inner world behind and begun my new day; my fresh start. I had never, however, understood the meaning of a fresh start. Each day was a cumulative sum of my life and the past always reflected on the future, whether it is a mistake, or the following through of an arrangement made previously. Then the day had begun. As it was a weekend, I was able to forgo the pleasure of school and the occupation of my mind and instead had a day free to my own devices. One thing about me was that I loved school, purely because it occupied my mind. Time spent with myself was like a poison, killing me within my own thought. My over analysis and critical insight on the world often lead me to ask the unanswerable questions, to pull myself apart and generally become overly involved with my own mind. My annoyingly analytical mind always needed something to do and tended to latch onto rather absurd things and obsess. For this reason alone, I hated both weekends and school holidays and I selfishly wished for them to be over prematurely.

Redondo gently placed his delicate muzzle in my hair, inspecting whether I had brought him any green grass. I jolted out of my inner reflection. I shrugged the gyre like thoughts from my mind as I turned to watch the inquisitive creature.
I felt my lips curve into a small smile.
“Hey boy,” I murmured softly. He snorted softly before losing interest.
“Sarah,” Monica’s voiced carried effortlessly across the distance. I glanced up in her direction. “You can get Remus’ tack and saddle Redondo up. I’ll be with you in a second.”
Delighted, I sprung up, much to Redondo’s surprise, and hurried off to the tack room. I quickly brought back the saddle and bridle and with slow movement, began to tack him up. Automatically, as a brought the bit to his muzzle, he opened his mouth, gently accepting the bit.
“Good boy,” I said softly, running my hand over his scrawny neck. Once I had put his saddle on, and checked the girth was tight enough, I lead him from his paddock. I kept up easily with his determined pace. When my instructor arrived, I lightly swung myself into the saddle and directed him toward the dressage arena.
“Ask him for a trot,” my instructor commanded lightly.
Gently, I touched my heels to his side. He leapt forward into a wild, unbalanced trot. His head was thrown high up in the air and his ears pricked forward.
“Woah boy,” I cooed softly, gently closing my knees. His ears flickered backward, listening to my voice. The jarring trot became a little more fluid. He began to settle and although his was not very controlled, I could already see his desire to please. As I climbed off, I felt his head shoved against my upper body. Taken by surprise, it took me a moment to realise what he was doing. I wrapped my arms around his head. His body relaxed as he took a deep breath. A flicker of joy ran through me. I had my ally against the world.

Aww :) :)

It's very good

Thanks for the continued reading!! The support means a lot.



Captured in the moment, the next month passed in a blur of happiness. My greatest desire had finally been fulfilled and even though Redondo was only half mine, it was enough. In this moment, the great depressive storm seemed to have lifted slightly as I spent less time dwelling in my own world of personal thought and more experiencing the wonders of living. I corresponded with Penny, describing with delight my change for the better. My family life seemed to be fragmenting though. I had never really experienced the tight knitted extended family and out of my mother’s four siblings, only one remained close while the others had immigrated or fallen out with the family. I had enjoyed spending time with my younger cousins, often re-experiencing my childhood with them. Now, they had decided to immigrate. Confused and in a state of disbelief, I withdrew from them. I tried not to engage with them past a greeting and small talk. It was my way of protecting myself. Every time I confronted myself with this reality, deep shame and revulsion pushed to the surface. The feelings became a cycle and I often avoided even the slightest thought of them.

Christmas came and went with little celebration. Our family had taken a holiday to England to check on my father’s parents. These holidays were a tense affair. My mom, still baring a grudge on my grandmother about her criticism of my mother’s parenting skill, made it clear that she was not happy to be going. My grandmother kept a fierce ruling of her household and often gave way to serious flashes of anger and unjust accusations. That time for me, caught up in the lifeless cold of a British winter, brought up my darker side. It prowled in the corners of my mind, waiting for me to give into its full influence. I withdrew into myself and remained cool and aloof from the rest of my family. I was angry that we could not spend our Christmas with my family that was immigrating. I took to drawing most of the time and slipping out into the cold by myself and wandering the icy pathways of the area. No snow came, and England remained a lifeless, sodden cage in which I was forced to stay in. When we were to leave, I felt very little. We were arriving back home on the seventieth, two days after school had started. Annoyed with my parents for keeping my away from my sanctuary, I kept my contact with them to a minimum. When I did go back, I settled into the swing of things easily. It was a new year with a sparkling opportunity. That year I got to choose my subjects; which were English, Mathematics, Afrikaans, physical sciences, history and Art. Happily, I began my new start, my new year and was planning to leave my past behind.

The day of their departure seemed strangely unreal. The long drive to the airport was filled with an easy talk, avoiding the impending separation. I engaged with my cousins, talking candidly about our futures. As we drew closer, a small dread filled my heart. It would be strange to say goodbye to people who had for so long been a part of my world and my view of family life. The plan would be to go to New Zealand to visit them in four years, although, knowing my family, we wouldn’t. However, I let those thoughts slip from my mind. Four years was far away and right now, I had to say goodbye. It was an emotional good bye. There were tears from everyone, especially my mother. One by one, I said goodbye to the only idea of family I knew.

Chapter Seven: Of Death

Teetering on the edge of sleep, images of death lingered against my mind. Vivid images of plane crashes, of blood and gore took over my half awake mind. Images of my dead extended family sprung to mind. Barely a week had passed since that had left. Five days to be exact. The presence of the thoughts made it near impossible to sleep, so I gave up entirely. My eyes fluttered open and I knew something was wrong. I stepped forth from the holding of my bed and walked toward my parent’s room. I felt my eyes widen as I took in my mom’s tear stained face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked warily, expecting the event not to have any impact on me.
“Uncle James is dead,” the raw, rough voice broke into my heart. I stood there for a second, frowned and walked back into my bedroom. Nothing graced my mind. For a moment, I was nothing, and even to myself, I did not exist. Then, reality, as deft as an opening flower broke through the first reaction. Tears began to fall thick and fast as I gapped in disbelief at my walls, as though they would be able to give me some insight into what was happening. Suddenly, I felt as though something was crushing my chest as I forgot how to breathe. My muscles tensed and a tension headache soon found its way into my situation.

For just a moment, I was rendered helpless. I could only stand there, reliving the images of a plane crashing. No, that would have killed the whole family. I numbly walked into my mother’s room. I curled up next to her on the bright white bed sheets. My mind, looking for something to take away this indescribable shock and pain latched onto the whiteness of the bedding.
“W-what happened?” I finally asked, plucking up the courage. I did not want to distress my mother any more, and due to that did not want to ask her that question. I felt like an inconvenience.
“He was electrocuted,” she replied, her voice filled with a wrenching sadness.
I felt my body go cold and my brain blank out for a second. It couldn’t be. That did not seem fair, it did not seem right. They had gone away to create a better life but now they had a nightmare. My cousins no longer had a father. Angry, and consumed by my own grief, I felt my reality fall away and only the wild unchecked, primal emotions remained. I looked up as my mom continued to talk.
“There was a puddle on the floor... as well as the geyser,” the story remained broken, as even my mother struggled to keep her thoughts together. Uncle James was her brother and the closest maternal family that she had left.
“Chris saw it,” she concluded finally.
Chris, the younger cousin – had seen it. I blinked the tears out of my eyes, knowing that I had to be strong for my mother. It just did not seem fair. Numbly, I went to bed after my father had brought us all sleeping tablets. I stared up at the ceiling, contemplating my first experience of the death of a loved one. The tears came and went in tides of grief until finally I drifted into a very unsettled sleep.

The next morning I still demanded to go to school. I refused to allow myself to be caught up at home and drown in my own poisonous thoughts. Adamantly, I decided that I would not allow this to affect me. However, I sent a message to Penny and Zillah, telling them what happened, just so that I would not be alone in my feelings. I looked at myself in the mirror, horrified to see that I looked like an emotional wreck. I did not want people to see I was upset. I just wanted to get up and get on with my life. I arrived at school just as I received the messages from Penny and Zillah. I barely registered what I read, so I put my cell phone back in my pocket after a shaky reply. I sat in my register class, staring blankly ahead. My two friends joined me, talking about trivial details. Bethan, the more talkative one, droned on about her latest conquests as I zoned out. I had not really cared about her love life before and I was not going to care now. Stacey, the more intuitive of the two, turned her focus to me.
“What’s wrong?” her question took me by surprise and I broke into a flood of tears, utterly uncontrolled. Anger rocked through me at my weak disposition and I desperately tried to gain control again.
“M-my U-uncle died,” I stuttered out.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was just babbling on about my life. You should have said something!” Bethan said, surprising me. I found myself enfolded in their arms, completely baffled about their reactions.

The rest of the day played out much the same. As people confronted me about why I was looking withdrawn and sad, I broke down and confessed much to my own disgust. Teachers that I barely knew threw consoling looks at me. I knew that they had been informed. My cousins had gone to the same school as me, so I guessed it was only natural that they knew. I managed the day then was taken home. I heard from my mom Zillah would be coming around. I felt encouraged and almost excited. I had not seen her in awhile and always enjoyed her company. As soon as I got home, I curled up on my mom’s bed, waiting for her to arrive. No sooner as I had lay down, was I asleep. I woke up an hour later to soft voices. I picked myself up and crept through to the lounge. There Zillah and a few other people were seated around the dining room table, talking to my mom. I almost shied away as Zillah glanced up and caught sight of me.
“There you are! I was about to come get you up. It’s not good to lock yourself up away,” her voice was exuberant and she got up and embraced me in a rib crushing hug. I smiled somewhat at the whole thing, feeling too drained to do anything else.
“How are you doing?” she asked her gaze sharp.
“I’m fine,” I replied simply, shrugging my shoulders.
“Don’t lie, I know you’re not,” she smiled and brought me once again into a warm comforting hug.
That’s a stupid question to ask then, my mind growled. I really was fine though – Well, I would be fine.
“Zillah has offered that you go stay with her while I’m in New Zealand,” my mom piped up. “I’m going to his funeral and helping Colleen managed with everything.”
I nodded numbly, and my lips formed the words, “That would be nice.”
A twinge of relief touched my mind. I got to escape from this horrible reality and my cold, indifferent father and brother. It seemed like a bargain.

Well done :)
Glad we had more so quickly!
Really enjoyed it

I've just caught up with this and it's really good! I hope you can keep writing you're really good! I like the sound of your english teacher, reminds me of mine in a way :) Although it did scare me when you mentioned the psychologist as mines called penny too xD i was like 'wha!?' but she sounds really nice though, hope you're ok hun xx

Oooh amazing updates

Thanks all! Your support means a lot. I will have more up after tomorrow's chemistry exam, either tomorrow or Friday.

Moonlight: Ye, she used to be nice. Then she went all weird and well, she wasn't that nice anymore. Oh well. :/ That is kind of weird. But cool. Was your Penny nice? Thanks for reading. :D

Take care all! xox

Good luck with your exam

Sorry it's late, it's rubbish, and there's not that much of it. I'll try write more later. I just am struggling to remember.




The next few days was set aside in preparation for my mother and my grandmother’s departure to New Zealand. A deep blanket of gloom had settled itself over the household. I began to pack my own bags, preparing to find my own escape. My school bag was set, holding all my new school books. This was not quite, how I had envisioned my grade ten year beginning, nor my ‘sweet sixteen.’ I packed in a couple of books, intent of having some sort of escape plan within a strange household. While I was quite comfortable with Zillah’s family, and her sons had adopted me as their older sister, I was still an uncomfortable idea finding refuge in somebody else’s home. I grabbed my book and went to climb an old, rugged tree. Manoeuvring myself into a comfortable, I opened my book and began to read with unseeing eyes. My brain buzzed, making it impossible for me to concentrate. We had taken my mother to the airport the night before. I could not quite believe I was back in the same place I was a week and a half ago. Nervously, I had watched her depart, fearing she too, wouldn’t come home. The rumble of a car engine filled my senses. I looked up, smiled a brilliant smile of a fake happiness, and lightly jumped down from the tree. I quickly went to fetch my stuff and brought it to the car.
“Is that all?” Mark, Zillah’s husband, asked me.
I nodded in response, and then moved into the car when Mark himself had indicated that I could.
“Hello gorgeous,” the warm, confident voice floated effortlessly in my direction. I smiled and hurriedly responded. My chest constricted in anxiety as I struggled to converse with a person who had such an over powering personality. I tried to hide, sitting in silence on the trip back to their house. Much to my dismay, both Zillah and Mark prompted me to tell them about life. Mundane things really, about school, my social life and of course, Mark’s favourite question, my love life. I squirmed at the intrusion of my personal life and answered each question evasively with my favourite description: Everything was fine. There, plastered on my face was a smile easily mistaken for friendliness or enjoyment, but it remained a symbol for my deep discomfort. Finally, the interrogation ended, due to my lack of interesting responses, and they turned their attention to each other. I returned to my solemn silence, and drifted into my own imagination. The glances of pity I received told me exactly what they were thinking. Satisfied that they believed I had suck into my grief, I allowed them to continue believing it if they ceased to make me uncomfortable with questions about myself.

As we pulled up to the house, a small sense of relief settled upon me. At least if I had some place to escape to, I could evade the onslaught of questions.
“Sartjie!” I turned at the excitable greetings from two youngish boys. Dylan, the older the older one was ten while Ryan was eight. I enveloped them in my arms as each contended for my attention. Each of them desired to show me something of theirs. Amused, I played along with the correct signs of awe.
“Hey. Is it ok if we go out for supper at Spur tonight?” Zillah asked, popping her head around the door. Taken by surprise at the question, I smiled at her curiously.
“Sure, I have no objections,” I replied, still baffled at the request. It was strange having someone ask me permission to do something like that. My family tended just to do things. I supposed it was some kind of guest/host etiquette. I took a brush through my unruly, thick hair, taming the wild length somewhat and waited to leave. I did not join in the conversation in the car ride, finding my own meek voice drowned out by the strong contesting for dominance of the conversation. The meal turned out much the same way. The boys went off to go play while I remained in silence with Zillah and Mark. Their best attempts however, did little to loosen my tongue. The evening itself, was not too bad. On arriving home, Zillah sent the boys to bath and then to bed, while Mark invited me to watch TV. Silently, I obeyed curling up on a vacant couch. Later Zillah joined, and while Mark left to sleep early, I remained as a silent sentry keeping her company. While I barely registered what was on, the company was nice. Time slouched on, and I dozed lightly.
“Hey sleepy,” Zillah chuckled, amused, “you should go to bed!”
“I want to keep you company,” I replied softly, a small smile touching my lips.
“Go to bed!” she scolded playfully, and a hug and a kiss on the cheek later, I knew I had been dismissed.
I sunk into the strange bed, feeling detached but a little safer.

It's very good, well done :)

Oooh excellent update

Some more! Thanks you two for sticking this through with me. If I do publish it, if it's good enough, I'll send you copies. :) Sorry I took forever, I went on a family holiday. unfortunately, I won't be able to write more until next week.



The next few days was set aside in preparation for my mother and my grandmother’s departure to New Zealand. A deep blanket of gloom had settled itself over the household. I began to pack my own bags, preparing to find my own escape. My school bag was set, holding all my new school books. This was not quite, how I had envisioned my grade ten year beginning, nor my ‘sweet sixteen.’ I packed in a couple of books, intent of having some sort of escape plan within a strange household. While I was quite comfortable with Zillah’s family, and her sons had adopted me as their older sister, I was still an uncomfortable idea finding refuge in somebody else’s home. I grabbed my book and went to climb an old, rugged tree. Manoeuvring myself into a comfortable, I opened my book and began to read with unseeing eyes. My brain buzzed, making it impossible for me to concentrate. We had taken my mother to the airport the night before. I could not quite believe I was back in the same place I was a week and a half ago. Nervously, I had watched her depart, fearing she too, wouldn’t come home. The rumble of a car engine filled my senses. I looked up, smiled a brilliant smile of a fake happiness, and lightly jumped down from the tree. I quickly went to fetch my stuff and brought it to the car.
“Is that all?” Mark, Zillah’s husband, asked me.
I nodded in response, and then moved into the car when Mark himself had indicated that I could.
“Hello gorgeous,” the warm, confident voice floated effortlessly in my direction. I smiled and hurriedly responded. My chest constricted in anxiety as I struggled to converse with a person who had such an over powering personality. I tried to hide, sitting in silence on the trip back to their house. Much to my dismay, both Zillah and Mark prompted me to tell them about life. Mundane things really, about school, my social life and of course, Mark’s favourite question, my love life. I squirmed at the intrusion of my personal life and answered each question evasively with my favourite description: Everything was fine. There, plastered on my face was a smile easily mistaken for friendliness or enjoyment, but it remained a symbol for my deep discomfort. Finally, the interrogation ended, due to my lack of interesting responses, and they turned their attention to each other. I returned to my solemn silence, and drifted into my own imagination. The glances of pity I received told me exactly what they were thinking. Satisfied that they believed I had suck into my grief, I allowed them to continue believing it if they ceased to make me uncomfortable with questions about myself.

As we pulled up to the house, a small sense of relief settled upon me. At least if I had some place to escape to, I could evade the onslaught of questions.
“Sartjie!” I turned at the excitable greetings from two youngish boys. Dylan, the older the older one was ten while Ryan was eight. I enveloped them in my arms as each contended for my attention. Each of them desired to show me something of theirs. Amused, I played along with the correct signs of awe.
“Hey. Is it ok if we go out for supper at Spur tonight?” Zillah asked, popping her head around the door. Taken by surprise at the question, I smiled at her curiously.
“Sure, I have no objections,” I replied, still baffled at the request. It was strange having someone ask me permission to do something like that. My family tended just to do things. I supposed it was some kind of guest/host etiquette. I took a brush through my unruly, thick hair, taming the wild length somewhat and waited to leave. I did not join in the conversation in the car ride, finding my own meek voice drowned out by the strong contesting for dominance of the conversation. The meal turned out much the same way. The boys went off to go play while I remained in silence with Zillah and Mark. Their best attempts however, did little to loosen my tongue. The evening itself, was not too bad. On arriving home, Zillah sent the boys to bath and then to bed, while Mark invited me to watch TV. Silently, I obeyed curling up on a vacant couch. Later Zillah joined, and while Mark left to sleep early, I remained as a silent sentry keeping her company. While I barely registered what was on, the company was nice. Time slouched on, and I dozed lightly.
“Hey sleepy,” Zillah chuckled, amused, “you should go to bed!”
“I want to keep you company,” I replied softly, a small smile touching my lips.
“Go to bed!” she scolded playfully, and a hug and a kiss on the cheek later, I knew I had been dismissed.
I sunk into the strange bed, feeling detached but a little safer.
The week to follow followed a similar pattern of a silence while I tried to be the perfect guest. I spoke only when spoken to and padded around the house trying to keep as much to myself as possible. I threw myself into my school work in the afternoons and, when night time encapsulated my thoughts, I lay awake finally alone with my own thoughts. Angry at being caged, the culmination of suppressed emotions bitterly fought for some recognition. Tears that I hid from people rolled down my cheeks silently as I struggled to get some sleep. Exhausted, I moved around school with a vague interest and a fake smile, distancing myself from the throngs of unwelcome encounters with people. Used to being somewhat different to the other teenagers my age, I found it easy not to communicate with them. I stared blankly into our Afrikaans set work book as our interesting, rather fierce, feminist teacher read and explained the text to the class of vacant minds. Here and there, people took short notes but most gazed out windows. This inattentive behaviour often warranted the culprit glancing up to see a large PVC pipe hurtling in their directions. This was met by great amusement from most of my classmates, other than my timid friend who had immediately requested to change Afrikaans teachers. My eyes skimmed over the language on the page, and my brain, out of habit, translated it to English rather than understanding the words alone. Tears welled up as I struggled to keep a hold on them, but then drew back. I often experienced the intense emotions like a wave, building in intensity, reaching a peak, then as my mind suppressed it, collapsed and disappeared.
“You need some air Sarahtjie?”
I Glanced up, utterly surprised at the words of the woman. The usual aloof, piercing look has left her bright blue eyes and a softer concern illuminated them. Wordlessly, I shook my head, blushing in embarrassment. I had hoped that sitting at the back of the class would not draw any attention from the rather strong willed woman. Ms Visagie gave me a hard, searching look before she carried on explaining what the book was trying to tell the reader. I caught Stacey giving me a strange look to which I gave a sheepish smile.

Wednesday was the arrival of a new member to the Ketcher family. As I came in from school, I was accosted by many people that had come to inspect the new arrival. Taken aback, I fled to my room and hid from the great throngs of people. Zillah had spoken to me about the whole thing, as though I too, was one of her children that may be threatened by the baby. She tentatively told me that she maybe wanted to rename the child James, after my uncle, although Mark did not like the name. I smiled at the thought, somewhat touched. She had been fostering children for a few years now and had decided to adopt one of her own so that she would not have to let it go. I did know that now I would have more time to myself, as I certainly would be avoiding the child. While most of my friends adored babies, I found the lack of ability to have a semi intelligible conversation rather frustrating and tended to feel helpless around them. The day wore on and the chatter of the visitors slowly ebbed away. When I did reappear, it was with much caution. Zillah had curled up on the couch, holding the sleeping baby in her arm. As she glanced up and noticed me, she beckoned me over. Obediently, I moved over and sat next to her. With a smile, she gently placed the little boy in my arms, much to my horror. I feared that I may somehow hurt him, but a reassuring smile somewhat calmed my nerves. Silently, she put her arms around me, enfolding me gently. For a few moments, we sat in silence. It had become our means of communication over the last few days. I was too afraid to say anything and she, seeing that, tried not to push me too hard.

“I better take Matthew to bed,” she whispered softly and lifted the infant out of my arms. Both relieved and disappointed, I nodded and went to go get ready for bed myself. I had just curled up with my copy of Macbeth when she entered the room, smiling slightly.
“How has school been?” she asked lightly, sitting at the end of the bed, searching me for some reaction. Smiling wryly, I knew she was trying to get me to talk.
“It’s fine,” I replied cagily, suspicious of her motives. She laughed lightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a warm amusement. At that response, I relaxed, and I echoed her laugh with a smile of my own. I felt safe, for just that moment, and loved.
“How are you doing?” her eyes were shadowed by a seriousness as her laugh died away and her real intention lingered heavily in the air. The words to reply felt heavy on my tongue and I lacked the ability to reply truthfully. Suddenly, I wanted to tell her everything, about the cutting and the darkness that swallowed the world I lived in. I wished that for once, I could be truthful. Yet still, the fear of her rose up in a suffocating anxiety and I was left with no courage to say even the smallest truth.
“I’m coping,” I managed, knowing that fine would not suffice. Regarding me suspiciously, she searched for an indication of truth. I smiled meekly.
“You know I’ve always seen you as a light, ever since I met you,” she said softly. “You’re very special Sarah.”
I frowned slightly, unable to believe any truth in her words. Her words made me uncomfortable as she confronted my belief that I was worthless. Violently, my punitive side struggled to make the words redundant, but a glimmer of them remained.
“Good night gorgeous,” she smiled and gently gave me a hug goodnight and then moved away.
“Love you,” I said, surprising myself. Zillah, herself looked taken back for a moment before she relaxed into a warm smile.
“You too,” was a soft reply before she flicked the switch and I was engulfed in darkness.

Ooh wow, I always think how this is worth the wait. It's very well written and I'm very glad I am following it.

I managed to get some writing done before i leave this afternoon. Thanks again for your support!

sms: text

The week passed too quickly for my liking and sooner than I was ready, my mother returned home. With a solemn goodbye, I left my little safe haven and returned to the cold home life I dreaded. School life continued as per usual, and life slipped past with very little memorable days. I slipped further away from reality and indulged in my thoughts. I had resisted the urge to cut for a few months, but the cracks in the armour began to show. Slowly, my dark passenger crept back into my life with small cuts, slowly gaining in severity. The cutting crested then began to fade as I slipped between coping and falling apart. June came, cold and dull and winter grasped my senses. It had been a year since this roller coaster ride had started and I regretted ever starting it. My relationship with Ms Salzmann had faded away to the occasional chat and I was left feeling hurt and alone. While I had not seen Zillah in awhile, she had promised that we would be going for coffee that weekend. Happy at the prospect, I willed the school week to fly past.

Frustrated, I found the visit following a similar pattern. While I wanted to open up, I just could not find the words. After the visit, on the drive home, I fought with myself to tell her at least about the cutting. The anxiety was almost suffocating and each kilometre closer to home, brought on a greater frustration with myself. As we rounded the corner into the road, I finally decided to take the plunge. The lull in the conversation was the perfect opportunity.
“I cut myself,” I blurted out, frankly doing away with any possibility of misinterpretation. I looked away, my heart pounded uncomfortably in my chest. A shocked silence followed, as I was aware that Zillah was trying to process what I had said. She stopped the car at the top of the driveway and looked at me searchingly.
“Oh no, gorgeous,” there was no outrage or condemnation in her voice, only a concerned curiosity. Thoughts filled her eyes and I knew she had no idea what to say to me.
“It’s nothing. I have to go,” I said offhandedly, gave her a hug and leapt lightly from the car, satisfied both that I had told her and that I could now hide from the implication of my confession. A few days later, I received a surprising sms. Hello gorgeous. We need to talk urgently. Are you free on Thursday afternoon? Dylan has cricket, so we can meet at the school.
I could not help but feel a surge of fear ripple through me. Desperately, I crushed the feeling and responded a hasty confirmation that I would be able to make that time. Over the next few days, I dreaded the upcoming ‘chat.’ The plans changed that I would go home with her after school. I waited nervously outside the school gate, awaiting the familiar car. As it drew up, I slowly and reluctantly made my way across and step lightly into the car. The journey was a silent one and all attempts at conversation were quickly abandoned. As we arrived at the house, she insisted on drawing out the process and proceeded to make lunch. Finally, she settled on chairs outside and turned her gaze to me.

“I’m just going to cut right to the chase here. I was doing some research on cutting and I saw that most of the reasons given are that... Have you been sexually abused?”
I looked up, shocked at her blunt usage of that word. I went cold with dread and I dumbly stared at her, feeling utterly exposed. Immediately, I lost my appetite and felt faintly nauseous. This question was the last one that I had expected to hear. I would have preferred her berating me for cutting.
“Sarah? Is that why you wanted to come live with me? Is it your father..?” she persisted.
Horror engulfed me and I hurriedly gasped, “No, it wasn’t him.”
“So you have been abused?”
I remained silent, fearful, and trapped. I looked away. I could not say no. That would be a lie. Yet, accepting it and saying yes was something I certainly was not ready to talk about yet. The best reply seemed to be saying nothing.
“Look at me,” she coaxed softly but I refused. Utterly caught off guard, I found myself defenceless to her onslaught. Frustrated, she began to talk, trying various different ways to try getting some kind of admission from me. However, I remained silent, yet it was not a conscious decision. Fear rooted me to the spot and locked my jaw.
“I think you should see a psychologist and get some medication,” was her final say.
I looked at her, fear giving away to a hard stubbornness.
“I have one or had one already and I’m not going on meds,” I replied, annoyed at the demand.

Yay! More so soon :) It's amazing as always :)

just started reading your storey and couldn't stop, completly screwed any chance of an early night! :o)
its really good!
hope you had a good holiday and looking forward to reading the next chapters
x

OMG I just spent like the last half hour reading your story. It's AMAZING. Can't wait until your next installment! Great writing!