Little girl lost in a great big world – Fiction
****Please note, this is a work of fiction and copyright goes to writer, Wanda Probe, and may not be used in any form without my express, written permission.***
My name is Annie and, no, I’m not an orphan. It’s quite the contrary really. I was born into a very wealthy family who gave me everything I could possible need or want, yet I was never quite satisfied. I always felt that my older siblings, and even the two younger ones, got the attention I sought from my mother, Rose, and my, overbearing father, Patrick. To this day, I feel tossed aside from the family who SHOULD have loved me, after all I am a very good person, it’s other people who have problems.
When I was growing up, my parents drank daily, even though they never considered themselves alcoholics. It seems that every picture I have of them, also contains an open bottle of alcohol or a glass filled with the liquid. I remember starting to drink back when I was seven. I saw how happy the magical drink made my parents and figured that the liquid might be the fixer upper I needed too. I vomited almost immediately and instead of consolation by my mother, she yelled in my face, reminding me of how horrible a person I was. She held her glass, stopping to take a sip, and never spilled one drop. My father came over to see what the problem was and then my mother began to berate him too. The two of them stood over me, while I was still vomiting, and argued. I watched as my father put his drink down to shake my mother. She never spilled one single drop.
Now I wonder how I can ever forgive them for what they did to me. I instantly saw how they created their own problems, as did my other siblings, and I had all the answers, they never listened to. If I had full control over my father and mother’s assets, there would be no problem. I know what they need and they don’t. They waste their hard-earned money on their ungrateful children, except for me, who has to beg like a dirty native begging for yet another handout. I am far above those dirty beggars yet I am treated the same. My prediction, the family will implode now.
My mother died after a long battle with heart problems. She was waiting for a new heart, which I thought would be great since the old heart had no love in it for me. I told her to keep fighting, but she never listened and selfishly died. I remember telling her, after she took her last breath, how disappointed I was in her and how much of a coward I thought she was. Everyone had left me alone with her and I remember being angry at her. She looked peaceful, but to me she looked like a selfish coward.
My family started to turn away from me and became vile creatures who only thought about themselves. It seemed like everyday they were scheming against me, trying to drive me crazy. I spoke out against their treatment and they called me crazy. How dare they call the only same one in the family, crazy? If it were true, and I was in fact crazy, they could take full credit for that diagnosis. My family tried to push me away from my father, who was paying all my bills, because I allowed him to. I was in charge of most of his finances because he felt bad for his abuse towards my mother and myself, so I could charge anything I wanted to his credit card and he was happy to pay all my bills. He should. He was a vile person to me as a child. He owes me much more than the little bit of money he willingly gives to me.
My father is dying in a hospital and my five siblings and other family, are denying me access to him. They are trying to control me yet again. They haven’t succeeded yet and they never will. I am the best person in the family. No one can be better than I am. I have always had the answers, they were too dumb to listen to me. Those nasty cretins should rot in the ground for what they’ve done to me. I’ve never been anything but good to them, yet they hate me. I am the middle child and my oldest sister, is telling me to get out. She is a vile creature. She stole my father away and made him stop paying my bills. She is money hungry. Why can’t they see that?
Last night my sisters banded together to try to drive me out of my father’s hospital room and I refused to go. I have as much right to be here as they do. I have more right. They have no idea what he put me through. I hated the man but I also loved him. I was very angry and began shouting so that every person in the Cardiac Care Unit heard me. I wasn’t going anywhere and everyone needed to know that. I didn’t care who heard me. If I wasn’t allowed to be happy, then neither was anyone else. I am done giving in to these cretins.
Yes I have a temper issue but it’s not my issue, it’s everyone else’s issue because they cause me to flip out. I don’t care that the doctors want me to stop drinking wine and start taking medication for what they say is “bi polar”. They tell me I am a narcissist and a psychopath. What the hell do they know? I am not any of those things. I am not crazy. They are crazy. The doctors who diagnosed me with these fake illness’ are quacks who must have failed medical school. I know what’s best for me and I am what’s best for me.
If anyone was or is crazy, it’s my damn family. I keep telling them that they are the problem and need counseling, but they refuse. Do you see what I’m dealing with? I hate them all and I don’t like to use that word.
Truth be told, I will be happy when my father takes his last breath so I can whisper, “I win”. I know that I will be getting a large sum of money as I was always his favorite but my siblings tell me I’m not getting one penny. We’ll see. I’ll sue them if they don’t give me what is due to me. I deserve money for all the shit they did to me. I hate them all.
Now he lies in a room and I am not allowed to be there. It’s the final knife to my heart from my family. I refuse to cry because then they win and I won’t have that. I am drying my eyes and putting on my serious face to match my serious mental health issues. I win and they will lose. My lawyers will make sure they lose.
Money is the root of all evil and the damn root belongs to me. After all the shit they did to me, I deserve every penny that the old man leaves behind, not those bottom feeders.
So I waited for the old man’s last breath and then celebrated. I called the hospital on Monday to see how he was doing, and after dealing with the bitchiest nurse in the world, I was told he had died. I was shocked but then elated. They say people grieve in their own way and I guess this was mine.
I wasn’t allowed to attend the hospital or even the funeral. My wretched family took out a restraining order to keep me away. That didn’t stop me. I drove to the funeral home, after a few drinks of liquid courage, and tried to enter. Two wastes of men told me I wasn’t allowed to enter. Damn it. I was his daughter and I was going in. I started yelling and telling everyone in the funeral home just who I was and how they were all a bunch of liars and conspirators. The police showed up and, after trying to explain what they were doing to me, they arrested me and took me away. I wasn’t allowed to be there on my father’s last day above the ground.
I sat in a jail cell waiting to leave. A man came to see me and told me he was there to do a mental health evaluation. I told him to go fuck himself. There was nothing wrong with me. The problem was everyone else. If they did what I told them to do, there would be no problem. If my family let me in to the funeral, there would be no problem.
“Is what you did right?” he asked me.
Of course. I do what I always think is right. It’s not my fault that other people are dumb and don’t get it.
I was placed in a psychiatric facility by that ass hat. The nurses shoved pills down my throat. Every time I vomited them up, they gave me new pills. Little yellow ones. Big blue ones. Multicolored capsules. I was flying high and I didn’t have my wings with me.
The doctor came to see me everyday for the first few weeks and I began to talk. I surprised myself. I wasn’t a talker about what I needed. I was more of a pointer outer of other people’s problems and blame them for all my problems kind of person. Maybe it was the medications but I began to speak to him. I didn’t trust him for a long time. How could I trust anyone when I couldn’t even trust myself?
Day after day the fog began to lift and I began to feel more at ease and not so on the edge. I started to think about what had happened in my life and one day I started to cry and didn’t stop for months. I let my tears fall which were in my heart for so many years. I cried for the abused little girl. I cried for the loss of both my parents. I cried for the loss of my family. I cried for the woman who had been my partner for so many years but whom I scared away too. I cried for my children and my grandchildren.
I started to feel less agitated and started to realize that perhaps I was at the center of my own problems. I started to realize that it was me who created so many problems for myself and maybe not so many were the fault of my family. I started to heal my shattered heart for the very first time.
What is this feeling? Could it be peace? Could that be a smile I am wearing? I am coming out of a fog I never realized I had been in and I like it.
Months went by and one day, the doctor said I could go home. I felt panic because I didn’t know what there was for me at home, except memories of people I couldn’t speak to. The doctor brought my four siblings in for a final meeting, and although I never pictured them actually coming, they were all there. The doctor asked each one to share their story dealing with me, both good and bad. I smiled at the happy stories I had never heard and cried at the sad stories I had a hand in creating. The doctor explained that I had been doing great in therapy and the medications were helping me. Finally it was my turn to speak. I swallowed hard, looked around the room and then said, “I’m so sorry”. I started to cry then and it was like each tear brought more love inside my heart. I knew I loved these people and I knew I could never make it right. I was happy they were there.
My oldest sister reached over and gave me a hug filled with love and peace. I could feel forgiveness. This was a moment that I would treasure for the rest of my life.
The doctor let me go home, with strict instructions to come see him once per week and to take the prescribed medication. I was nervous but happy. When I opened my door, I realized that I was really alone. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I wanted my family. I wanted my mother and my father. No they weren’t perfect but neither was I. I looked around on my walls and saw all the happy memories. I know we have sad memories too but I realize I can’t do anything about the past. I can do something about my now and my future.
I visited my dad’s grave today and told him how much I loved him and that I forgave him. That last part was hard but forgiveness is about you and not the person you forgive.
I forgive you dad.
I forgive you mom.
I forgive me.
One day at a time is the best I can do right now and that’s okay. I am not in a rush. I want to enjoy this new feeling of inner peace and love for others. If one day I have my family around me again, that will be a great day but until then, I will look after me for a change.
Thanks for reading my fictional story. If you or someone you know is dealing with a mental health issue, reach out to them. Help is only a phone call away.
Mental Health Canada http://www.mentalhealthcanada.com/
Canadian Mental Health Association http://www.cmha.ca/