You probably want to know what motives I have, to want to die. As if you even cared to know anything about me. You barely know my name. Do you really think that my life is important? If you did care, would you really even try to stop me from ‘throwing my life away’, as if you came to the conclusion that I had any sort of life? In all honesty I have been planning to die for at least a year. Never been successful before, but as the cliché says: If you fail the first time, Just Try, Try Again.
Before you go on and decisively judge me, take a step back and listen to my story. Listen to the story that would never be told, the forgotten tale of my life. I know that to you I am just going to be another ‘number’ increasing the suicide statistics. I have a name, a name that is unknown, and a name that would never be mentioned, lost in history.
To the rest of society, I will just be known as that boy who killed himself the other day. I guess since I have no attachments there’s no one who will really miss me. Even if they would, why does that matter? In that case they should have valued me when I was with them. The last attachment I had to this nauseating society was my mother. She was practically the only one who cared about me. Well too bad for me she’s dead. There were others who knew I existed to say the least, I suppose I was otherwise detached.
Time to take a step back and let’s do what every good story does and have a beginning. Yes, I know that I should have already introduced myself and given you a background. I suppose that you want to try to understand me. Well, I guess it’s unusual to see anyone care with such extremes about someone who they have not met.
Salutations. I am Leonard Windsor.
The beginning of my life resulted in my parents becoming divorced. Well rather let me rephrase, my parent and her partner (prior to the cataclysmic event pertaining to her pregnancy and the process leading to and resulting in my birth). What was particularly harsh in this case was that my mother’s ex-husband did not even consider his own daughter (who is my half-sister) when he left. That was the first major event of my life that I indirectly participated in.
As for my real father, he is a mystery that I could not solve. Mother never mentioned him or how she got pregnant with his child. What remains unclear is why she would pursue a relationship while she was married. The happening of that day is history, similarly, is their shared bond. Whatever her reasons may be, that simple thought released a chain of cataclysmic events in her life and to those who were connected to her.
Well, I was neither favourable, nor acceptable to her parents, my so-called grandmother and grandfather. To these people who I was to call grandparents, I was seen as an abomination. Perhaps that’s why they imposed that I should be aborted. Unfortunately for them, mother did not adhere to the jurisdiction they had enforced.
I always enjoyed mother’s warm embrace, her soft skin and gentle touch. She brought me a sense of security and happiness. These things which I felt, I would soon lose along with her.
Once I was a child, cheerful and carefree, knowing that mother would always be there beside me. Picking me up when I fell, being the hero who swooped in to save my day. Teaching me, filling my belly with delicious food that could only be compared to pure gold. She was the one who I called my mum. I believe that our time together would be everlasting.
In the blink of an eye everything can change, a life can be lost within seconds and all that is left behind is a trial of suffering.
Sadly, I was utterly mistaken. It was the year 2012 and even though the world did not cease, it came to an end to the 5-year-old boy who laid upon the bottom bunk curled up into a ball afraid and insecure, mourning the loss of both his mother and reality.
That young boy was little Leonard Windsor, and this was only the beginning of his agony. This was his trial of suffering.
He did not know any better, so he laid there crying. Thinking about his mother, how she would never be able to tuck him in bed that night, sing him a lullaby, kiss him, and say goodnight. It was anything but a good night, that I ensure you. No more warm hugs, no more birthday wishes. No one to call the best mum in the world, which she was to little Leo (that’s what she called him).
Poor little boy lost his entire world, and that happened before he began school.
Mum was excited to take me to school on my first day there. I was equally excited. I was going to be brave as a lion. Make friends and life would be filled with fun.
However, the harsh, seemingly unpleasant reality is mum died. My first day was horrible. I made no friends, and to this day I do not have friends. As for life, it haunts me. It has been painful for me to grow up with no one to support my ideas and opinions. Without anyone who believes in me, I had no motivation, at least towards living.
What else could I have done but lay there crying? Place yourself in my predicament. Always challenged by an ordeal that I never chose to be in my life. This traumatic moment that I was presented with is constantly replayed in my memory.
So, I lay curled up into a ball weeping in the hopes that my hero would hear my call and rescue me.
My hero never came. I began to realise the harsh reality that I faced. It was time that I accepted what had happened.
Mum is dead, Little Leo, finally started to comprehend it. He had to grow up. He had to leave behind his fantasy, the reality that he wanted. So again, I will say it, mum is dead. He understood what that meant, but it took a while for him to accept it. He probably still wishes that he could give himself the false hope that mum would leave the hospital alive and recover.
Visits to the hospital. Well, that was something, no child should bear the horror of seeing that place. Children are often left with an impression that doctors can do the miraculous.
In the case of that little boy, this place quickly became his worst nightmare. It was in this particular hospital where he lost his mother. He may have been too young to remember its name, but not too young to have experienced childhood trauma.
I hate hospitals. Do not misinterpret my words, I do not believe that doctors are not qualified, in fact it’s quite contrary. I just believe that the medical field is unreliable and to have faith in them is unreasonable. Perhaps this belief is due to the unfortunate circumstance of being a 5-year-old boy who had to witness the demise of his mother in Ward D3 of Block B2 in the East Wing.
If memory recalls correctly, I was a frequent visitor here. Friedreich’s Ataxia. That’s what mother suffered from. It’s a rare genetic disease. It is incurable. The doctors lied to me saying my mother would be alright, it was only a matter of time before I would see mother die.
Though I couldn’t comprehend what she was going through, I could see that her hair and skin colour quickly began to fade. She sometimes, was unable to move certain parts of her body.
Soon I read these words:
“Here Lies Charlotte Windsor,
My half-sister Genevieve, age 21, silently wept whilst trying to comfort me, but that was to no avail.
After one loss it is hard to maintain connection with people who are close to you knowing that losing them is inevitable. All that’s really remains is intolerable pain. Recalling happy memories stir up depression and one seek to escape this recurring experience.
I, myself have experienced this. I remember the moments I spent with my mother, and it always reminds me of how much better things would be if I still had her in my miserable life.
Her death had severed the bond I had with my sister (because that was what I was told to call her). I never really had a close relationship with Genevieve or chose to acknowledge whatever we had between us. Losing mum made me scared of keeping relationships. The pain of keeping relationships knowing that in the end they will hurt you, tends to be unbearable.
I do acknowledge that Genevieve did understand my situation, but she did not understand my feelings and my new mind set. She tried to keep a good relationship between us. Even though I don’t want to say it, she had become a mother figure to me. If there was an award for the person who I had inflicted pain upon the most, first prize would go to Genevieve Windsor.
There was a burden that came with my decision to detach myself from every person who was important to me, and I guess that is how I ended up like this; depressed, isolated, and suffering with a suicide complex.
It was because of my poor judgment that I longed to kill myself. I saw no reason to live anymore. As for self-worth, I could not comprehend how it would be possible that someone could see value in me if anyone did. By now I had hoped, even Genevieve would stop being so persistent about my life. Even someone like her would eventually reach her breaking point. There would come a time that she would stop forgiving me for hating myself.
I might as well say it, the only reason I have not killed myself yet, is that I couldn’t conjure up the strength to make her suffer another loss.
Gracias por leer!
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