I Am Heard

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            I am in my cozy, homey three-bedroom apartment, willingly confined to the walls of my simple bedroom, sitting, technically sprawling across my bed. My bedroom is usually quiet and comforting; however, today it is not. The physical appearance of my bedroom has not changed at all, considering, the dirty colorful sock that I wore yesterday is still lying in its exact position on the floor. The difference of my room is one that only I can notice, one that only I can feel. Today, it lacks its power to effortlessly soothe my broken spirit. I am a 16-year old teenager lost in my thoughts, attempting to find peaceful solitude in my room and of course, like everything else in my life, that is failing as well.

I am consciously aware of the custody battle between my parents, but I am more aware of the helplessness I feel in regards to the situation. My dad knows that I am not comfortable with the idea of living with him since I have voiced my opinion on the matter a plethora of times before, yet he is still summoning my mom to court, in hopes of doing so, legally, forcefully, and against my will if that is what it takes. My disappointed spirit is loud but he still does not hear me. My mom is accepting the challenge, fighting for and with me, even though financially she shouldn’t. I am watching her drown in legal fees all because of the selfish needs of my dad, and his abiding guilt. Inevitably, I am angry. I am missing school because the pre-trial and the trial are being held in my hometown, Tallahassee, Florida, 266.1 miles away. I am an “A” student, who utilizes school as an escape, and now this custody war has infiltrated its way into that as well.

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         Angry thoughts birth angrier thoughts and now I am upset with doctors, along with medicine too. My maternal grandpa is suffering from a bone infection and I am not sure if it is something they can fix with surgery. When they attempt to fix his illness through amputation surgery, will his elderly body be able to withstand such pressure? I am angry with his body and its potential inability to fight back as well.  My rage is piercing but the doctors, their medicine, and my grandpa’s ill body cannot hear me.

I am longing to find relief in two of my closest peers—my best-friend and my ex-boyfriend, but they are absent. I had an argument with both, resulting in no communication, so consequently they cannot hear me.

I feel misunderstood. whisper to myself, “They just don’t get it.” I cannot and will not bring myself to admit they are causing my pain, but I allow myself to admit they are not easing it either. I know that I am sad, but I know that I am not alone; I have my mom and I will always have my mom. She is a single parent and I am her only child, so it has always been just the two of us. She is my friend, but more importantly, she is my refuge, I can find safety in her.

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        I realize I cannot endure this emotional storm alone and I roll out of my bed to find her. I walk into the small dining area of my home and I notice that she is in the kitchen. She’s wearing her “teacher attire”— a burgundy polo that has her school emblem stitched on it, a crisp pair of khakis and a pair of comfortable black work shoes. As usual, she has her burgundy hair in a ponytail, accentuating her oval-shaped face. She is washing her hands and I pause for a second to admire the sparkle of the diamond ring she wears every day. She lays her eyes upon me and without words or embrace she starts healing my spirit instantly. Her presence alone, is enough to make my cold heart, warmer. She non-verbally provides me with permission to vent, looking up and asking me through the concern on her face, “Are you okay?” This is a rhetorical question because she can read me, meaning she already knows I am not okay, but I answer anyway. I start talking to her casually, then I begin explaining, peeling back more and more layers of emotion. I am now a mixture of fast words, sniffs, and soft murmurs. This soon escalates to me screaming at her. My body is hot, my blood pressure is through the roof, and my tears are literally warm and steamy. My fists are balled up and I am practically jumping from emotion, but she is not offended or afraid because she understands me, not just the happy me, but the dark, raw and un-cut me as well.  She does not run and distance herself from the crazy me or my mental breakdown. She does not respond with presumed phrases such as “I cannot handle this,” “You are too much,” or “I have my own problems,” instead she stands there and she hears me. My eyes are closed and I am speaking so fast that most people would not be able to interpret my words but she can. She hears my verbal words but she hears my heart too, and she is the only person capable of doing that. I am several different people in this moment, experiencing a multitude of emotions—defeat, distress, and desolation, yet she hears them all. I am still screaming and she is still standing there listening, without the slightest bit of judgement.

 

    I yell my last words, “I am just, I am just, tii tired.”

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    There is a moment of silence, lasting about 5 seconds.

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    She hugs me and responds, “I know.”

 

    She does not force advice like others, instead, she just continues to hug me, hugging me until I am ready to let go. She knows what I need, and she knows it’s not feedback; it’s a listening ear, a listening heart. She is now swaying as she hugs me, rocking me like a mother does her newborn. I am now crying profusely, but my tears are different, tears of relief. I think to myself, “Someone finally hears me.”

I am calm, I am at peace, I am heard.