The Secret Left Unshared

I was told that this week's prompt was about real life. My real life. I know that as a writer I shouldn't talk to the readers about writing this story, but I can't help it. After all, this weakness in my writing is part of the secret left unshared. 

   I am, in a way, a prodigy. In a bad way, if that makes sense. But only to myself. This secret, it takes a million words to express. There is never a way to put it all in one sentence. 

   What do I mean by all that? I'm a rare soul, as people may say. I can't even find a way to ease into the real story, so I'll just jump into it instead.

   When I was a child,I accidentally got dropped on my head on ice. As I grew, I never quite understood how to put thoughts into words in real life. People never really understood what I was trying to say.

   I was fine though. I was a happy little girl who thought I could change the world, who did not understand how people could be mean. A normal pupil. Then I turned seven. My mom, already separated from my dad for a long time, went into a diabetic coma. 

   Basically, I had to go live with my step mother, who I have always despised. My father overreacted over peculiar things, and she would yell at us for everything. 

   Anytime I tried to communicate with her, she would mistake what I said, just like everyone else. I matured suddenly because I had to, but part of my childish spirit remained. I would never get along with my own age and gender again, except for my dearest friends, who I still remember to this day. 

   Keltsey and Jade. They understood me. They understood my strange wording and my maturity, and they kept up with me until they moved away a year later. Their influence left me with a creativity that I couldn't get rid of.

   I was so emotional, so misunderstood, and I had so much piled up creativity that I started forming stories in my head. Stories I could pretend to be in to escape this world. 

   This isn't a sob story. It's just me explaining my hidden thoughts, my 'secret'. However, I started writing these stories. Maybe one day I could share them, since I still have them. 

   A youtube video. The next thing to change my life. It may seem weird and sudden, but it was about a dyslexia test. I tried the test and- low and behold- my communication skills were from dyslexia. And as stupid as it sounds, I'll drag it to my grave.

   I can remember something a teacher taught me 5 years ago, but not what someone said 5 seconds ago. I was confused by this before I realized something else. 

   There had to be a trigger for me to remember it. With teachers, the quiz asked a question, which triggered the memory of my mind. In real life, there was no trigger to remind me to 'windex the bathroom mirror'. 

   There I was, 13, unable to properly communicate, have friends, understand people, or remember things without a trigger. There is still so much more than that.

   The constant migraines. The psychological understanding without people saying anything. A talent? No, a curse.  I don't know what the migraines are from, but I somehow understand what a person is thinking or feeling without a word exchange.

   If only they could see me, in pain physically and emotionally. So much has happened. One night, when I was alone, I nearly went insane. This- this is truly the secret. But no one could truly understand why it hurts so much without the back story, my pain. 

   I started believing I had magic. Yes, this is a real story, all of this is. I started to think that someone was keeping me from remembering something. To me, the cure was love, which I never had or earned except for with my blood mother.

   I started to think about how I understood and cared more for animals than humans. My brother was believed to have a heart disease a while ago, but I didn't cry. Yet the next day I cried for a cat who had been discussed for a while. 

   At this thought, I had an image appear in my mind. A black cat, in our front yard. Right in front of the swing. I went out to look. Right there, just like in the random image, was the black cat. 

   You can't imagine this helped. I had no one to turn to, to cry on or to be comforted by. Even if there were, I couldn't communicate what was happening properly. I went to sleep, determined to stop thinking this way.

    I was no longer shaking in the morning, but I couldn't force the thoughts out. I still haven't to this day. You see, I had forced my emotions down for some long that any time I got emotional, I started shaking. 

    After this whole event, I started having panic attacks and being stuck in a circle of thoughts like this. I never told anyone I love about these either. What could they do, send me to a doctor? 

   My claustrophobia got immensely stronger as well. I shook whenever in crowds, and I whispered to myself over and over,"You're fine." I never was, though.

   My awful luck, as proved by all these events happening in the course of my childhood, got even worse. I started getting mad at this (somehow) and got even more secluded, yelling at my friends and picking unnecessary fights to distract myself. 

   My only escape was writing the stories and listening to music. The music blocked out the thoughts of insanity temporarily. I already explained what writing did. 

   I hid this- every moment of my lonely pain- because I never wanted to make others hurt for me. The truth is, I've always felt like a robot, or a machine.

   No emotion, never having my own thoughts,my poor speech and understanding, having an infinite amount of memories that were opened by a trigger- they always contributed. 

    Luckily for me-I rarely ever say that- I found someone special. It's nice to have a distraction. A comfort. Someone who loves me, someone to love. Yet someone I can never tell.