Zoo of Thoughts

Illustration by Sultan
Title Illustration by Deangelo

“The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain”

Karl Marx

 I often wondered how much pain I could inflict on myself, without the white light seeing me. The first time was phenomenal. I had complete control over how much pain I endured, how joyous it felt to relieve my mental suffering. Once upon a time I had no control. I was under someone else’s command.

          As a child, you listen to the demands of your parents: go clean your room stop hitting your brother, be quiet. I would comply with the last commandment for nights on end. He would come into my room every night and I would pretend to be asleep. He knew I was awake, he knew I could feel his rough hands reeking of nicotine as he spread my legs apart. I could feel his beard scratching my inner thighs as he continued to touch me. Some nights I really didn’t want him to. I would turn away, lock my legs and vanish under the covers. I was terrified some nights, terrified that I could enjoy this. 

          One day I was watching him use my mother’s head as a plunger, driving her into the wall. My mother suffered the most. I wasn’t enduring the same pain she was. She had no idea what was going on. He didn’t sleep in the same bed with her, he wouldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t love her like he did me. I told my best friend at the time not to tell a soul or I would die. I told her my daddy was touching me. The next moment I recall was confusing. I was at the hospital with my legs propped up and open, like I was about to give birth. The nurse was a man, checking for seminal fluid. It made me uncomfortable that he was male. After the hospital I found myself standing at the door of a beautiful townhouse with my social worker. A lovely African-American woman greeted me and showed me to my room. I was in foster care for four months and saw my mother twice in that time. I was subjected to court to testify against him. I walked in and hopped into my stand, facing my attorney, a jury, his attorney and him. He seemed to have aged 10 years in the span of 8 months. His hair and beard were white, his nails yellow, still dry and rough. A mesh-like board was placed in front of me, courtesy of the court, in hopes it would help me not look at him. He made direct eye contact with me, smiling throughout the hearing.

The years behind me affected me mentally after my experience. I hated myself. I hated that my mother no longer had someone to grow old with, that my brother had no father figure. I hated myself. I went to therapists, counsellors, group meetings, all of which I despised. As if I would want to talk to anyone about what was going on in my head. Not even I knew. I would not look in the mirror for months; I would not socialize for months. I was craving something powerful. Anything to calm the zoo of thoughts in my head.

My mind was lost in a whirlpool of negative thoughts; I had no purpose here but I didn’t want to die so young. My mother was coping with the aftermath of her daughter being molested and sexually abused for two years; committing suicide so soon after would have been too much for her. The first time I harmed myself was tremendous. I was inspired by a girl in a show I stumbled upon. She was happy, she was perfect. She would cut herself any chance she could, like a smoker taking a smoke break. I was mesmerized by the blade she used from her Gillette razor. I wondered if this was the antidote to my mental suffering. I wanted to feel the same euphoria. I had the blade in my hand; I knew what I was doing. As the pressure of the blade tears through layers of skin I begin to smile. I smile at the blood that has been locked up inside for too long. Not once did I revert back to my negative thoughts. I knew I was hooked, like someone who obsessive compulsively washes their hands, I felt sanitary and nurtured.

I was eleven years old. I had to find a way out of my head. While I talked to therapists, counsellors, girls in similar situations, I was convinced they were happy to hear about my problems. I couldn’t talk to my mother as she was overwhelmed with guilt.  I continued to self-harm until I was sixteen years old. By that age I slowly paid more attention to what was going on around me, rather than focusing on the thoughts in my head. I was surrounded by new people, a new environment and new life. What pain has done for me is put me in control: mind, body and soul. Every time I hurt myself I felt that much more alive. Suffering brought me back to reality. I was filtering out all of the nightmares, the screaming, the beatings, the crying and the self-hatred, that words were powerless to relieve.