The Choice

*Content Warning*

At 12, I had no clue that there was a name for generations making the same mistakes. But at 12, I could see myself living a poor life in the future filled with drugs and chaos. I decided that my future wasn't going to look like that. I made a choice. That choice, took almost a year of internal self destruction to make. I sank into darkness thinking of the guilt I would have to endure if I choose to tell someone. The thought of ending my life enter my mind. School and hygiene was not a priority. I was entered into a behavior program and monitored closely. I spoke of almost nothing for this year.

If I ended it then I could get out of the chaotic future that awaited me. If I ended it then I wouldn't have to live with the hurt or the pain. It would just be gone.

I didn't want to live with the pain of guilt forever. I didn't want to affect others lives. Thinking of these things always stopped me from walking into the counselor's office.

If I choose to tell someone at school, I would imagine others would be mad and say things after I left. They might call me a snitch, a weakling. Say I couldn't handle a rough patch. Left when the going got too tough. Couldn't talk to her family about the problems. Thought she was better than the rest of us. Probably looking for money. Couldn't get enough of it.

At nights, when the screams and glass started breaking into my mind, I would take a walk and find a quiet place to sit. I would dream of a calm, warm home that served dinner on a table and talked about their day. Maybe the siblings would argue and someone might get grounded and sent to their rooms. Some people see that as stressful. As for me, as long as objects are not being hurled across a room because someone took someone else's drugs, then it seemed better. I envied my classmates who had manageable homes that sat at table or got grounded.

Dreaming of these expectations helped me from my day to day reality. The physical part of a grumbling stomach and opening up an empty fridge was harder to manage.

The year it took to make my choice was awful. We lost our electricity a few times, water stopped coming from the sink for almost a week, the fridge was never full. I would scrounge for cans just to earn a few nickels at the gas station for food. The thick smoke of drugs lingered in the house, room after room and followed me on my clothes. Screaming happened daily. Shards of glass flew daily. I would wear my shoes in the house because the glass always found its way into my feet. Tables were turned. Chairs broken. Objects thrown about. Once a window was broken. Duct tape was used to cover the window. Shoes fell apart, buttons stopped snapping and underwear started to wear loosely. I never had cash to shop, I never had a lunch kit, I could never get books from the book fair. No one came to school functions. I had to walk everywhere. No one braided my hair or painted my nails.

After one year of constant implosions happening inside my mind, one night I dreamed of a cozy house with people smiling. Warm lights, vibrant food handed to me and firm loving hands gripping mine. I went exploring castles, mountains and rivers. The people gave me books and read to me. They would ask me about my school day. An intense feeling came over me and I awoke. I decided then that I wanted my future to be as close to that as possible. I had made my choice. I would live with the guilt and tell someone at school.

But a question did come to me after my choice. In came to me in a garbled phone call after I was removed. "Was it the money?" I cried and said no. I cried partly because it was true and the other side I was hurt by the mere question.

I cried because it was true. A little bit of money would mean I wouldn't wonder where the next meal was coming.

It would mean, I didn't have to fear the water being shut off when soap got into my eyes.

It would mean heat coming from a floor vent to warm your toes in the winters.

It would mean crisp cold air from a window unit in the stagnant summers.

It would mean shoes that fit, jeans that snapped and elastic in underwear.

The other part of the crying was, I was hurt by the money question itself. It meant that I felt guilty. An insurmountable amount of guilt that I would never get over. It would tear away and eat at me raw. It was something I was going to have to deal with because I wanted that intense feeling from my dream. One day I would attain it and when that day came it would be glorious, calm and warm with a bag of guilt to go with it.