Aug 13, 2015 Depression, OCD, Teenaged Angst
NineTeenRager
©August 13th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
She bangs her head upon the floor,
Bursting galaxies of pain
Bang, bang, bang!
Stars erupt from her eyes
She spits and retches
Bile arises from hate and pain.
She screams,
A banshee filling her lungs.
She hates with a passion
She hurts unendingly.
It’s all true, it’s all true.
And yet, and yet,
I see her drama in all this,
I see her watch us, awaiting response,
Fierce and hate-filled,
A caged beast trapped in
Its own bars, where there is a
door, but it cannot see it.
I see her calculating our responses.
She sees herself in our eyes
Reflected, refracted, diffracted,
As we leave the room to escape
The onslaught, our senses in disarray.
Demanding our attention,
She screams when she gets it,
“Get AWAY from me, don’t help me!”
Screams louder when we ignore her,
Steps carefully around a bag,
Announcing to her mother,
“I am OCD, I cannot help it,
I cannot help it. I’m mentally ill,
I cannot help it. You hate me,
You all hate me. I’ll never,
Ever come here again.”
Don’t help me!
Help me!
Help me!
Stop helping!
And the galaxies erupt from her eyes
Bursting like flames in our direction,
Spilling like blood onto our floor.
Her helpless mother, caved in,
Full of denial and unexpressed loss,
Broken stars in her own eyes,
Folds clothes calmly, calmly,
Trying not to scream herself.
Blames herself, always, always.
Self-blame, self-accusation
These fill the air.
We look on, helpless.
My own child, wise and accepting,
Understands when I give a terse order,
And ascends to her room, turns up the music,
Reads a mini-Atlas of the world.
(There’s much to learn from the very young.)
The scene goes on and on.
A guitar-string breaks.
My husband fixes it. More frantic
Screaming and crying, as she says,
“Now all the strings have to be fixed,
They’re not balanced!
Aaaaaaah! You don’t understand.
No one understands. No one
Listens to me. You don’t listen to me!”
She cries to her mother.
It’s all too much.
Silently, we leave them to their devices.
But I’m shaking with inexplicable anger.
Her hatred and horrors are infections.
I want this rage out of my house.
I pass by them, while they pack, and
They’re locked within their galaxy
And their stars are turning nova.
I take their bags to the car,
Since both are helpless now,
Incapable of volition.
As they leave, my husband in the car
Ready to take them to the airport,
She, still crying, looks away,
Perhaps blaming me for her outburst,
While her mother and I embrace,
And I wish her mother safe travels,
Wishing them both well, really.
And I climb back up
To my now-quiet home,
The screams shivering into silence
Settle down, and the dust rains down.
And, glad for something to do,
I take broom and pan and sweep
The dust, sweep and sweep.
I am shaken.
I am free.
I wish they could be.
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