I sit here and I ask myself, “What do I believe?” It seems simple enough to answer. I believe a lot of things. I believe that I hate politics, and I believe cookie dough ice cream is the best kind of ice cream. But those don’t really fit the “This I Believe” message. They aren’t core values in my life no matter how great or not great those are to believe. I have to dig deeper and think about how I view my life.
My mother and my sister do not get along. Their tempers clash with one another horribly. They can’t be in the same space for too long or they start yelling at each other. I can’t handle it.
It was Thanksgiving of 2007. My mom and my sister were just sitting and talking. Mom said that if she had a chance to do it over she would have finished high school, went to college, pursued a career, and not had children when she did. My sister took this very personally and flipped out about how Mom didn’t love her and didn’t want her. She then decided she wasn’t Mom’s daughter anymore.
I was in my room. I had my stereo on full blast, but I could still hear them screaming at each other. Finally, I heard a door slam. My mom called my name and I went into the kitchen. She told me to get my stuff packed; we were moving out of Grandma’s house. I ran back in my room.
I was a complete wreck. I started bawling, and I pushed the bed to block the door. I turned the music on and the light off. I sat in the corner where my bed used to be and I swallowed ibuprofen, not keeping track of how many there were. I grabbed a pair of scissors and started to scrape the blade across my wrist very swiftly. I made sure not to cut deep, but I wanted to.
A few months after the fight, and after the cutting had become ritual, my friends started getting on my case. It felt good to be cared for. Nothing stressful seemed to last too long. Then it clicked. Tomorrow is a new day. And maybe that’s a bit cliché, but it’s what I believe. Knowing that I can restart, at least a little bit, tomorrow gets me to keep going. That and cookie dough ice cream.
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