I hoped I hadn’t caused her any trouble, and that she’d give me the chance to talk to Tsabinu. But her calm face and bright smile every time she stepped out of my car gave me a flicker of relief. I hoped it wasn’t all an act, a mask for masking her worries when she was with me.
When I arrived at this estate, I didn’t linger. I went straight to my room or my study and locked myself in.
Eyes.
Countless eyes watched me. Countless mouths whispering about me, countless hands pointing at me. Yet being in this study room always brought me a small sense of calm. This place had been my hiding spot in this house.
Sitting on the carpet, I stared through the wide window at the view outside. Even thoughI was sure I was alone,it still felt unbearably loud and crowded. The voices whispering right beside my ears refused to fall silent for even a moment. Even the medication seemed useless now. That was why sometimes I’d ignore them because I was so sick of it. It allfelt endless.
I was trapped, like running on a treadmill; no matter how hard I ran, I never got anywhere, leaving me with nothing but ragged, uneven breaths. I walked a road with no end, trying to fix the wreck inside me.
The road only grewdarkeranddarkeruntil I gotlost.
It madethemkeep mocking me, jeering, accusing, slowly trying to kill me.
Crazy. Defective. Don’t go there. Don’t do that. Stop! You look pathetic.
I whispered. “Shut the fuck up…” I barely had any strength left in me.
I kept shaking my head as the voices spoke and provoked me. There was no way to make the voices that had been with me for over a decade disappear.
I remembered how terrified I’d been at the start. I screamed at my mum, my father, and my siblings. I begged them, shouted until my throat burned, to hear what I was hearing—but they gave me those shocked, strange stares. And my father looked at me as if I were shit beneath his shoe.
Because the fear was driving me insane, I began using AirPods and blasting music into them. But it didn’t work. The voices were still there, clear as ever, and listening to loud music all day only left my ears numb. In the end, I gave up and put on the AirPods to cover myself.
I wore them all the time, everywhere, in any situation, except when I was alone. It was as if I were talking to someone through them, when, in truth, I spoke to the voices,hiding the craziness.
Because if anyone saw me talking to myself (back tothem), they’d start to look at me differently. Those stares. They’d think me strange,just like he did.They’d start thinking I was crazy.You were, weren’t you?Thinking I was weird, defective.You’d always been that.
Just like my father.
In the past, I had to ask the people around me to make sure they saw what I saw, and it made me feel so degraded because it was only me, always only me, until I stopped doing it.
Tshabina called me a hero… but when all of this began, I realised I was defective, just as my dad had said.
My whole body shook, and my heart tried to escape my chest. I could already see it: the way her bright eyes would shift, turning cold and distant, looking at me the same way they all did.
I pressed my nails into my skin.
Today I met Ladie. At the start, when I first agreed to get help nine years ago, I went to a psychiatrist. Dr Margaret. She began prescribing medication, diagnosing me, and eventually referred me to therapy with a psychologist.
Mrs Handerson, my therapist. She listened to me, treated me, and guided me. A few years later, Ladie, fresh out of her psychology degree, began working under her supervision as an assistant. Then, after a while, she began practising with me.
I had become used to meeting either Mrs Anderson or Ladie. But meeting Ladie was also the beginning of everythingchanging.
From the start, I had my own reasons for not wanting treatment. For years, I’d been sinking into my own madness because I knew I was being watched, accused, seen.
What if the doctors and professors treating me were my father’s monitors? Reporting on me to him, so he could go on judging me, watching me, telling me how weird and crazy I was.
The thought that my father spied on me choked me so hard I could barely breathe. His words and constant accusations made me feel bound, especially given how clearly he always seemed to be monitoring me.
But after Zaeem offered a doctor he knew, with what little courage and sanity I had left, I agreed for no other reason than to return.
So, I could be the old Zioh again and go backhome.
But I never thought it would take so long, consuming so much of my sanity and energy to reach a place called “healing.”
It hurt so much when the reality I craved never fell into place. Or worse, it always turned out the opposite. Because the treatment dragged me into another hell.
