What they do
Tell them about their mistakes after my smile has long faded away

Anonymous Irooni
March 30, 2006
iranian.com

Amazing what they have the heart to do to us. A shame that we sit and watch them make choices that will one day turn us into disturbed versions of themselves. Memories flood into my head as I watch the past through my mind’s eye. It’s a strange, peculiar feeling that crashes into me. Knowing that tomorrow can never again bring the same smile of innocence to my face that yesterday brought me.

As I write my thoughts, the sorrow slowly drains out of me, or is it the blood that is flowing away from me onto the white tile? It doesn’t really matter.  Both are a welcome release. A silent release of pain is what it is.  And they will never know. I will never make them feel guilt no matter how much they may deserve it.  And they can never know.

The way that I stuffed calories into my stomach to feel satisfied. At first it was an act of rebellion. The cheese and bread and grease that I swallowed.  As time passed, it became a routine I needed to fulfill.  The tipping scale couldn’t stop me. I was on a mission to balloon myself into existence.  I was a child. It was a crime to let me succeed this way.

I think of the books I didn’t put down as a child until they were finished. Not kid’s books. No colorful pictures. No sweet fairytales. My favorite book before I reached 16 was Crime and Punishment. I responded better to guilt and self-consumption that to teenage romance books. No one told me to stop reading. Why? I wasn’t an old soul. Too young to be a weirdo intellectual. I wanted laughter and dance and carefree living. I just knew that it would always be out of my reach. They didn’t tell me.

Maybe I did it to myself.  I was a child. I had been brought up with too many hugs and kisses so I had too many great expectations.  I had ok. I wanted perfect. And perfect, well, it doesn’t really exist for an individual. Others can have your idea of perfect, but you can’t. And to someone else, the life you live may embody that perfection. 

This is getting sloppy, Raskolnikov.  It seems like the final ramblings of someone on a downward spiral. My veins are running on empty and my head is spinning. All I can think is “Oh God, what do they do to us?” And they smile and expect us to understand and take it. “Oh God, how they play with our minds…” and we let them. Because they say they are doing the best they can for us.

I think of tomorrow. Innocence is lost. Look at what they have done.  For me, the lesson is lost. But you. You look around at what they do, how they fail. Tell them. Tell them about their mistakes after my smile has long faded away.  Who are they? Ask your parents...