I remember the day I cought sadness.
It was the day I realised that I hated my father. Well, he hated me first, so I hated him back.
This illness began as a tiny seed, but then it grew quickly and weeded it’s way all around the blooming flower garden of my juvenile heart. It suffocated me. It choked all the joy out of me.
My father had no idea how ill I was, or maybe he knew but just didn’t care.
To my dismay I found out that he was also suffering from this disease, and it was hereditary. That meant I had no choice but to suffer.
He was a man of few words, and with those words he would always convey discipline, disgust and disappointment. Bursts of anger and endless tantrums were typical whenever I made a mistake. I hated it, I hated him. I still do.
I still remember the day I caught sadness.
The sound of my Father’s foot steps haunted my dreams. His disaproval hung over me like a dark cloud carrying a heavy storm. I was so afraid to dissapoint him, and this is why I never learnt to love him.
I was condemned with this illness so early in life and that proved to be too much of a burden for me to carry. I wanted to get well so desperately, so I took refuge in pills and potions. They only dulled the pain with temporary enjoyment. It felt like a peaceful dream that got interrupted by the horrific nightmare of real life.
I recieved neither consolation nor comfort. No “get well soon” cards, or warm soup to help me recover. Not even a single kiss of compassion from my mother. I was just left alone, to perish on my death bed.
So I decided to run, to leave my father and all my pain behind. I wanted be free, healthy and happy. But the further I ran the heavier my feet got. So heavy that they would drag me back. Back to that dark place. A place that I’m still trying to escape.
I will always remember the day I caught sadness, and it will be apart of me forever.
No relief, no remedy. Till death do us part.