The Rain is My Best Friend.
Tick tock, says the clock on the wall. It’s 12:00 AM and I am all alone in a room with my dusty heart, a numb mind, and heavy rain dropping on the ceiling window like bullets. London: the big, smoked city of dreams where everyone could feel the ordinary scent of faith; it’s where I live, or should I say, where I pretend to be alive. With love birds walking hand in hand, young couples warming each other up with hugs, and photographers rushing so they don’t miss the chance of taking pictures that symbolize romance, purity and happiness, rainy nights in London are said to be the best. Sadly, not for me. The rainy nights of London remind me of the worst scenes of my life, when I was alone in my room, scared of the rain dropping heavily on my window. These nights remind me of writing my feelings down with my body hurting as if I had just been in a fight with ten body builders, my heart aching, and my head in flames. I am someone who struggles in this life. I struggle with society, my parents, my friends, sometimes even with my own self. Now, whomever will read this will think of me as a person who lives to struggle. However, one should be fair; let me explain why I struggle with all of this. I struggle with my parents because they are extremely successful; successful to the extent that they don’t have time for me. My parents are famous, rich doctors. They own one of the most famous hospitals out there. They spend the only free time they have either fighting, or lecturing me for things I never did, and I know I would never do. I struggle with my friends because I simply don’t have any. In my opinion, no one knows the real meaning of friendship; that’s why I am someone who does not have any friends. I struggle with society because it keeps up with people who don’t deserve to live; people who hurt, abuse, kill, insult and do much more awful things. I struggle with myself for not minding my own business; for always struggling with the past and its struggles. All those struggles flash into my mind on those rainy nights where everything, except for the clouds, is silent and cold. I just can’t seem to mind my own business, how can I? How can I do so when I see how life is treating everyone? How can I do so when I see how life is treating me? Funny how we can relate to each other’s pain, yet we can’t fight for each other’s cases. I thought I’d find a way to end my struggles, but I figured out that I should end me, not my struggles. It was a cold day. No one was home; even the housekeeper was on vacation. The house was silent… pin-drop silence. I could hear my bare feet stepping towards the roof. I stood on the edge of the roof, wondering whether jumping would be more painful than the pain I felt back on these rainy nights. Ding dong… the door bell? Who could it possibly have been? It wasn’t 10:00 PM yet. Part of me told me to ignore the bell and jump.. just jump. Another part of me forced me not to, telling me that maybe this bell is my second chance in life. Ding dong. The bell again; but this time, it was followed by a lot of phone calls, my mom calling my name, and my dad hitting the door so hard. I stood there, paralyzed, thinking why I couldn’t end this story. Suddenly, the door opened, my parents fearfully and hurriedly climbing the stairs. I heard my mom breathing heavily, as well as dad praying for my well-being. When they reached me, I jumped, but in the opposite direction. I fell down on the roof’s floor sobbing. My parents leaned closer and hugged me, both of them at once, and I couldn’t find an adjective to describes how much I missed that feeling. It’s weird, isn’t it? Currently, I am being medicated. I am seeing a therapist and attending group therapy sessions with people I can understand. It was hard to face the world with six mental illnesses. I always hear cold remarks about my sickness, but my therapist said that if one knows how to deal with an issue form A to Z, he or she shouldn’t blame others who don’t. Sometimes, people treat me as if I‘m scary. At other times, people treat me like I have a mental disability, not a psychological issue. However, my sickness changed me a lot; saying that it changed me to the better would be kind of ironic, but it made me stronger, and soon enough, it will make me the strongest. I am sure that one day, I will come out of this strong, fearless and free. I am sure that one day, I will no longer be in my room. Instead, I will enjoy the rainy nights of London like lovers and photographers and other people who never miss a walk on these nights, allowing the wind to blow my hair, feeling the cold breeze on my nose and forehead. I am sure that one day, the rain that once fell on me as harsh as bullets will finally feel as soft as fabric.