22…this number has been my dirty little secret for far too long. I find myself in a state of extracting the last few toxic cells from my neon blue blood in order to truly be able to breathe freely once again.
22 has a double sided brokenness. Side A has been shared a few times amongst friends and with anyone who is an OG follower of my blog Genuinely Derra. For the newbies, I lost my Popee when I was 22, two weeks away from hitting that 23 mark. This landed my mind once gain slamming into rock bottom. It took me a year to climb back up from the depression and anger that hit when losing my Grandfather, only after climbing out of my dark cave could I begin to finally grieve and begin to smile when looking back at old photographs.
However, Side B of 22 has been a secret that has been shamefully concealed under the first layer of freckled skin on my scarred right arm. Shameful because 22 was a major set back that broke it’s promise to 17. I am one who takes a promise seriously, perhaps because I know all too well the disappointment of repeatedly broken promises. How one can get to the point of never trusting when the word “promise” slips through another’s lips. So, I only make a promise I intend to keep and if I can’t solidly secure that promise then I back it up with always trying like hell to make it happen.
A hippocrate is the label that should be painted across my forehead, in luminous paint. I promised 17 that I would make sure her death would never be in vain. A heart overfiowing with good intentions was no match for a mind still starring over the brink. The damage done years back was much deeper dug then calculated, the most complex miscalculation I’ve ever made (well one of two).
Deja vu starring back at me through the cracked looking glass. A toxic combination conjured up from the darkest corner of the ocean floor of my cerebral. Small cuts sliced within pre-existing memories of surgeries when young. Just a few droplets of crimson life escaped from each cut, just enough to feel pain, but not nearly deep enough to die. Each cut healed to an invisible state. The second ingredient was starvation. I stopped eating the way I needed, quickly becoming skinnier as time disappeared, quickly feeling the reality of physically dying. Above the most treachorus storm drowning me every thirty seconds, oxygen so sweet before being pulled back under. Glass tears falling down my cheeks, each screaming out for help and a wanting for acceptance.
It took throwing up blood, the vivid reflection of my ribs deeply defined in the mirror and my Mom worrying about how thin I was for my attention to be refocused on the promise made to 17. The world believes that I attempted in taking my life just once when in actuality once was twice.
These days my body is healthy, so healthy that it’s sickening. The past damage has been cut out from my bones, given time to heal. A new promise was made, not only to 17, but also my Mom. She made me promise to her that I would talk to her or someone if my mind became overloaded. She made me promise that I would never try to end my life again.
Thus this tattoo embedded on my right arm, embedded over the scars from past surgeries and the invisible cuts of 22.
“Carpe Vestre Somnia” (seize your nightmares). 11-17-22-2064 underneath.
The world created 17…
I created 22…
Both are my black roses.
“This is the sound we make when in between two places. Where we used to bleed and were our blood needs to be…” -Twenty One Pilots