It’s the dull thud in my head,
Trying to count the calories I’ve eaten today.
Have I eaten enough?
Who knows,
I don’t care.

It’s the prickling sensation in my shoulders,
The panic that starts to rise,
When I think of someone touching me.
Why don’t I like it,
How can I make myself like it?
I give up.

It’s when I look for comfort,
And have to look to a therapist.
At least she’s unconditional,
Doesn’t expect anything from me.
Anything but $165 per hour.

That is when the realization sets in.

I’m tired of being this person my parents wanted.
This happy,
Healthy,
Optimistic person.
She’s not me.
I cry as I write this,
Because I think she died a long time ago,
And this imposter has been in her place.

This Hollow,
Feeble,
Weary imposter.

I tried to look for ways to bring her back,
A defibrillator,
As a hopeless last resort.

I tried running,
I tried lifting,
I was looking in the wrong place though.
Those were activities that made her into who she was,
That helped her along the wrong journey,
A journey not meant for her,
Chosen by someone else.

I tried reading,
Reading of all kinds.
I tried literature,
But she wasn’t interested in that.
I tried Young Adult Fiction,
That peaked her interest.
But only in the way
That it sparked hope.

She hated that hope,
Despised the hero prevailing,
Getting their lover in the end,
Fighting for their family,
Loving their family,
Being loved by their family.
She hated that hope,
Because it reminded her of what she wanted,
And was denied.

No,
Young Adult Fiction was not the way to go.

I tried Netflix,
Movies,
TV shows.
I wasn’t going to make the mistake of giving her hope though.
I gave her shows with dark themes,
Corruption.
With deceitful,
Untrusting characters.
Characters with scars,
And traumatic pasts.

This helped,
Not in the way I had intended though.
She found solace in those characters
That wore their trauma on their sleeves.
Those who had been to hell and back,
And had to deal with the consequences along the way.

And then I found poetry.
Poetry had always piqued her interest,
But she was unsure of it.
Didn’t know what to write about,
Or how to write.
Then,
One day,
She bought a book.

This book showed her that poetry didn’t have to have a rhyme scheme,
Didn’t have to have a set pattern or flow.
It could be raw,
Open,
Powerful with hidden meaning.

Suddenly that girl had a way to express herself.
All the shame she felt,
At the horrid feelings she hoarded inside,
She had a way to feel them.
A means to explore what she had desperately tried to hide.

Somewhere along the way,
That joyful,
Cheerful,
Shining girl died.
She died when she put the pen to paper,
And was faced with what had been done to her,
The childhood that had been stolen from her.
She died when she realized her hopes,
Hopes for somewhere to call home,
Somewhere that wasn’t trapping,
Confining,
Brimming with painful memories,
She died when she realized those hopes were also dead.

So I’m left,
Mourning at the gravestone.
Mourning who that girl had tried so hard to be,
For her parents,
And for the sake of those who pretended to care.

But with her death,
She granted a freedom.
A freedom to become whoever I want,
Whoever I’m feeling that day.
No restrictions,
Limitless boundaries,
Of what I want to do,
Who I want to be,
And where I want to go.

For now I am empty.
Hollow from all the expectations,
Of who people wanted me to be.
Of who I tried to be.
Of who I couldn’t be.

For now I will be hollow,
I will be empty,
I will be sad.
I will mourn the death of someone I loved.
And then when the time comes,
I will be whomever I want to be next,
Because that hopeful girl gave me that freedom,
And I will not let her death be in vain.