For The Record

There's something strange about being in the arms of another person. For me, it is always a perfect moment that reminds me I am not alone. Whether the arms belong to someone who cares or someone who just feels obligated, I can pretend that I matter. I have hurt people in fits of burning rage that I can't fix. They can't be made up for, but it could have been prevented by the embrace of another. I know it sounds crazy, but the rage I feel stems from my loneliness. The loneliness protected by a wall I've been trained to build ever since I could speak. I was taught by  My parents to lie the brick. By my peers who helped me to adhere them with cement, and by my friends who reminded me to build three more so that I can close myself in from all sides. But despite all of that, a simple hug carries enough force to send the whole thing collapsing in on itself.
I'm not sure what it is about someone's arms around me that makes me feel safe. Almost like nothing can touch me because this person, whoever they may be, is there. That has an importance beyond all measure to someone who has spent his whole like fighting and losing his battles alone ever since the very first time he opened his mouth to whisper, "daddy". When she hugged me, although I barely knew her, and even though it was all in fun, and even though it was really awkward with her stroking my hair, I felt safe. Like maybe, just maybe, my suicide might be mourned by someone. Maybe I'd be remembered as more than the quiet kid in the corner. When you ended it by telling her, "I wouldn't do that, he's not a huggy person," I was too stunned to say anything back. I needed that then and now more than ever and it's something I'll never get back. When I finally was ready to accept that it was over, for a split second, I felt a hatred come over me. A hatred reserved for the kids who broke me, the mother who watched me fall apart, and the father who taught me how to hate.