30 Letters

Day 06 (A Stranger)

Dear Stranger (New Counselor),

Writing is often my preference when speaking directly to another, even if I do not know them yet, as in this very case. Found; it is much easier and of less difficultly for myself to tell all, rather than less, especially when the All is in need of being heard. Like now. Which stifles my senses and urges to recite, for the nervosity of the subject is intense and without effort against, does envelope me.

Such a nom de plume quite has yet to truly exist, but the brand that marks my birth certificate lightly reads: Stormy Christyna Cannon, which I find I fancy only a mere half of the hour. My mother and father met when they were lovely, young folk at an amusement park with the title Family Kingdom, recognized not far from where I am seated exactly now. Story tells; it was love at first sight, sparks flew and fireworks lit the opaque, open skies. My father was said to have ran an amusement ride called The Hurricane, created of bench seats and belt holds, all the while you ran fast circles into both directions, easing into what dizzy spells did come from such instruments. Suddenly, my father's dark hair in the wind aside the smell of popcorn and funnel cake, he jumped onto my mother's cart in an instant, locking eyes with her dark blue irises until the fascination and infatuation set into them both. Ever after, my mother traveled twelve states to constantly sense the alluring and dominate presence of my father and in the name of spending lifetimes together. Never once, on those starry, chilled evenings did they suppose their love would fade, or break, or loosen its gripping around either of their wrists. They believed in a forever, so there had to be a forever. But there was not and there is not and they know that now.

My father is an addict; including the swallowing of over-the-counter substances and the plenty of alcoholic beverages. Now, the definition of an Addict is as follows: to habituate or abandon oneself to something compulsively or obsessively. Which is what he has done and what I later found out, has always done. Not until his face has grown ashen white or his hands have fallen into shakes or his frame's stepping stumbles into nonfunctional states, does he begin weeping for the truths and the thoughts and to what he has made of himself. I have had the ability to comprehend what was going on around me since I was ten: the year I vowed to never love my father for twice; something I quite miserably failed at during a time in the more distant future. Still, I remember my doused, waist-length curls beneath his trillion tears, that fled from his face the midnights he had awoken myself from slumber to console his broken heart. For my mother would have none of it, her heart splintered over the aching fact that his addictions were far more lovelier than herself. Sometimes, in the midst of all chaos that was ourselves, I could hear her thoughts beckoning for his death, believing that somehow that would mend her open wounds. But his death never surfaced, for the year I was fourteen and had not viewed myself into my father's perception ever since, was in continuance the year I chose to be a hero, rather than a victem. With both parentals suicidal, social services right at our backbone, and finances failing, I decided that I must do something significant to vary the situations. And I did.

My mother is a manic depressive and carries the disorder titled, "bipolar," which is mainly like having two opposite or contradictory ideas or natures. It is quite often difficult to see her reasoning for her mind is incredibly far-fetched in comparison to others of our kind. When without medication, her movements become frantic, her curls tossled in the moonlight, as she searches dutifully for something to fill her when there is simply nothing. She drains and forces herself empty, until there is no fuel to her bones and soon, she may not leave the bedroom itself, hollowing out a home inside the mattress for her emotions while she rests batteries that never recharge, unless she medicates again. She was crazed, speaking in fluent lunacy as she fought for the things she would not let herself have. Running in circles, as if she never left that amusement ride over twenty years ago, remaining against the twirl of the surrounding world until it was not anything but a blur.

When at age fifteen, I promised my younger brother that he would carry aside him far better stories to tell than myself did, and in that promise I vowed to save my father and possibly my mother from the rabbit hole, they together fell throughout for the past years. Reaching inside the dirt and caved bellowing of their newest nests, I pulled them from their trances and set them into their proper places as folk, hoping to dear God that they would remain in such state. After much pushing, shoving, and spitting work, they did. For the time being.

Being of my mother and father, I am a manic depressive, bipolar crazed, ever so distracted human being with that of a addictive personality. There is no black nor white within my world, only color, and many of such, forcing it hard to label anything you ever see. Nothing has a name, not even me. I have cut myself with sharp objects, burned myself with scalding surfaces, beat myself bruised, dosed until the process of thought dulled entirely, used combs to throw forth the nutrients my body needed, and sewn into my skin the tales of a past too harsh for phrase. I have been in and out of hospitals for attemptive suicide, have had my very freedom threatened by the professionals chosen for myself to trust, and belittled by the few folk I have chosen to love myself. Life will never be the same for the decisions I have made and forced into the concrete, I am able to understand now. But at such a young age, this is true, for I am wise beyond my years and dates and times.

It is interesting how just one second of earth's moments can make you stronger than before, or smarter, or taller, or smaller. Because that is what is has done for me, so instantly. It is in these single seconds that you realize what needs to be done, how you shall overcome such, and exactly what it will make of your being. In what accounts for minutes, I became much more than a hero, but something inhuman. Something that loves with a lion's heart and and treats with a God's soul. All because I wanted to be. Because if you do not desire something, it is what you will never have, I told my father and my mother and myself countless times. It's something to believe in, as am I, so I hope sincerely that you can tend to my shattered pieces with my own assistance and patience. For I could be great, I swear that I could, if I could just find my feet in the fog that is my fragmented mind, so I had something, if anything to push off from.

Stormy.