The past Sunday, I woke up happy. I remember clearly when my parents told my sister and I that we were going to do family religious time. Just a few days before, my sister had been telling me about how she was sad that our family wasn’t doing that often anymore. She wanted our family to be more how it was in the past, so happy and connected. So we felt like it was a wish come true when they said this. We did the family religious time, we read a passage from the Tanakh about how the Lord is always there for you and we sang a lot of songs. We sang Frühlingslieder. The theme of these songs is Spring and new life. During the singing, my little sister and I were very happy. But after the happiness, my father with his arms around us, said he had something that he needed to tell us. I remember clearly the morning light seeping darkly through the stained glass windows of our tiny living room and my father’s shaking voice. He told us that our grandmother had had a stroke. He told us that she is passed away. Immediately I began to sob quietly. Never had I felt so much pain in my life. My sis began screaming hysterically. I cannot process that this is real. Just earlier, I had been thinking of what I would tell and ask my granny next time I called her. Just earlier I had been excited for the coming summer because in summer, we visit grandma. She had been there for me my whole life. My gorgeous grandmother. My second home. I love her. I still cannot fully believe that she is gone. My dad said that he told us in the easiest way possible. I believe him. But it turns out that my parents hid their greif and had been hiding the death from me for like two weeks. I want this all to be fixable, or fictional. But it is not. My parents are caring and understanding. But still I am pressure d to live as if my mental state is not so unstable as it is in reality. I am still going to be forced to practice my martial arts and go to therapy. I cannot talk to or play with my friends. My bff invited my sissy and me to a playdate, but we had to decline due to our mental state. I don’t want to go anywhere or talk to anyone because people will ask me “How are you?” and “What’s new?” And I’m not comfortable talking about that to them. I am heartbroken.
After my father told us of the passing, I sat and cried in his arms for at least an hour. Eventually, I got up, still crying. I was wearing my favourite shirt that day. In my immense pain emotions, I took to red and black paint to channel these emotions through my shaking body and into works of art. Stains got on my shirt, but I Don’t Care! The stains upon it are not a bad thing to me. Two days later, I tried to wear my favourite shirt again. I had washed it, but the paint did not come out because it was acrylic. My mother became upset when I tried to wear my shirt out. She said a child with messy clothing looks like a sign of neglective parents. It was okay for her to point that out to me, but she upset me because she reprimanded me for painting in my favourite shirt. I was too upset to make decisions, I had needed to paint immediately! Why would I think to change my shirt? Eventually my mom realised this and she allowed me to wear my shirt. But my father had entered the room. He began to explain that I was allowed to wear my stained shirt to the store, but I need to be aware that because of the high number of people in our area supporting fascist ideology, we would always have to hide that we were different or something very bad could happen to us. We had to hide that our religion was different, that our philosophy and morals were different, that our political and economic views were different, and we had to hide our disabilities. And if I can’t do my clothes in a normal way, he is correct in saying that it is in fact apparent that I am disabled. I have brain differences that make me disabled; so does my sister. I think that my parents may as well, but not the same as my sister’s and mine and not as severe in affecting them. Not until then did I realise quite how dangerous my area is. I am afraid.
I am heartbroken and afraid.