The Hell I Carry

By Lucas Derion

It’s funny how a memory has the potential to weasel its way up from the depths of one’s mind and float effortlessly on its surface. We are then forced to re-live the moments we have spent decades burying beneath amicable smiles and a false sense of security. This is my story; one shrouded in as much truth as my mind can tolerate. My story may mean nothing to you, but I believe, that if these words were to fall into the right hands, then they could have the potential to change someone’s life, someone’s mind. At a young age I learned what it meant to carry the scorching secrets of a fiery hell. For years I allowed the flames to consume my mind as I proceeded to live a life devoted to destruction and chaos. I blamed my mother. I blamed the men that raped me. I blamed the woman that refused to love me back. But when the smoke cleared, the mirror on the wall only painted a single reflection, that of myself. So, when the big bad wolf no longer blows, yet the house still falls, who will I have to blame then? Only me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucas Derion
• Release date: Jan 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463649985

Book preview

Prologue

I am not a writer, but I am passionate about my story, though it has not always been this way. I used to believe that I would carry most of these secrets with me to my grave, but I would often ask myself: what good will they do me then? Between these two covers, across these white pages, I have tried, with great effort, to stick to the facts. This story is not eloquently written with fancy words meant to stimulate the imagination; it is just simply told. There’s some dialogue; my attempt to breathe life back into these bits of memory. The names of all parties involved have been changed to mask their identities. Though, there are some individuals, based upon our relationship, that, even with masked names, are easily identifiable.

My biggest reason for sharing these recollections, is to piece together the past so that I may, in light, understand the man I have become; so that I might be able to explain, to some degree, why I’ve hurt the people that have simply tried to heal my broken mind. Women, good women, would crumble at my feet, as I surged through life on a path dominated by destruction and self-loathing. Why? They would constantly seek formidable answers in an attempt to find some underlying meaning to my barbaric behavior. My answer, however, is not as simple as the question. To those that have asked me why, I hope this story provides you with some closure and reassurance. When I said It’s not you, it’s me …I meant it.

I am a selfish human being, this I am aware of now. It is one of my many flaws that I have come to accept and, though I have accepted it, I know that there is always room for improvement. I am improving, but I am not perfect. I had hoped that, by reliving these moments in my own words, I would find peace in my own story so that I, with the professional support of a therapist, could finally begin the healing process.

To my foster mother, forgive me for going against your wishes and publishing this piece. My intentions were not to disturb the peace that you have finally found, but simply, through the art of story-telling, to find my own. I know that your intentions were always pure, and your character had, for the most part, been selfless. There are many children in this world that will die, never having known the warmth and comfort of a mother’s love. I, fortunately, will never be one of those children.

To my good friend Sed, thank you for the long nights and deep conversations. Thank you for being a friend in my hour of need. There is a saying that goes in the darkest of times, good friends will show you the light, but true friends will take your hand and walk by your side. Thank you for walking with me when I could no longer walk alone.

To my biological mother, I will simply say that I understand what it is like to carry a hell, but I will not make excuses for you. A hell is a heavy burden, but it is one that we all must bear. It is, however, how you choose to carry the weight of this burden that ultimately decides your character. I wish you had chosen a different method in which to carry yours.

Finally, to the reader, please do not judge the weeds that have learned to flourish in my garden. For they, too, are just simply trying to survive. I once read a proverb that stated that the only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement. Hopefully, you will come to appreciate the dandelion in the same manner that you appreciate the rose.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

-Rabindranath Tagore

When it is all said and done, and the dust of this story has finally settled, I hope you find the time to sit in the shade and enjoy what remains.

The Bigger Picture

Time is tricky, both a healer and a dealer of pain; both a gift given, and something loved that is quickly reclaimed. Time tinkers with the human mind, molding it to tell whichever story may best accommodate its true underlying motives. It controls our every move, influencing our choices, thoughts and interpretations of our own realities. Yet, it is us who has given Time the ability to force us to our knees…begging for more of it. I have often asked myself, if given more time how would I choose to reestablish myself within the realms of my own reality? What would I, to a realistic extent, do differently? I have searched for the answer and once again Time has claimed my tongue and the matter still haunts me as I settle into the gloomy comfort of simply… not knowing. How could I have known what Time would bring? How could I have known what Time would take? If I were given more time, I do not know what I would do differently or if I would, in any matter, do anything worth mentioning at all. Time is manmade, one of man’s greatest inventions and it shall be, in time, our greatest downfall.

Time has a strange way of rearranging memories, like unevenly cut pieces of a complex puzzle. However, life, unlike a puzzle, does not come with an accompanying image that guides our hands as we piece together the bigger picture. In life, we are simply given the pieces and expected, over time, to make sense of the mess.

My memories lay before me, but they mean nothing until I have pieced them together. Time has rearranged many of my memories and even, in rare circumstances, robbed me of them. Time is tricky, but it is precise. In a world of chaos, it remains as it is; precise. This precision, while unwelcomed in many faucets of my reality, guides me in the same way a hand may guide the pieces of a puzzle. I have, without knowing it, craved precision. My life, up until the very second that I began telling my story, has been chaos. I sit here, amongst my thoughts, piecing together the memories, in an attempt, to make sense of the bigger picture.

After all these years, why now?

When I informed my foster mother that I would be writing and eventually sharing my story, she was not particularly thrilled about my decision. She insisted that sharing such details would negatively impact my ability to properly heal. I believe, however, that she was more concerned about how this story would portray the nature of our good Christian family. There are many pieces to this puzzle and time, with all it has taken from me, has finally given me something far greater than a broken heart or bruised ego; it has given me a voice.

My first therapist was a family man with a fancy job and an impressive title. I was 8 years old when I first stepped into his dull colored, but well-lit office space. He told me to make myself at home. When I think about it now, I laugh at the simplicity of his attempt at a kind and warmly gesture. Home? I had, seven months prior to this day, been ripped from my home and left in the care of an elderly woman with an unkind face. During those seven months I moved from one dwelling to another as the foster care system struggled to find a family willing to take in a flight-risk, but that’s a story for another chapter.

As I stated before, my therapist was a family man with a fancy job and an impressive title. His intentions were good, but he failed me more times than he saved me. However, to an extent, I am forever in his debt because for the next nine years he offered me the insight that would eventually lead me to a paradise stained in blood. His intentions were good, but he was misguided and as a result I was lost, and my beacon of light would save me from the sea, only to lead me to a shore of jagged rocks and a slower death.

You must learn to connect. This was the only bit of advice that he could offer me over the next nine years. I admit, that when my mother left, fear swallowed me, and darkness slowly consumed me. I was eight years old and every son needs his mother. Mothers foster compassion that fuels the fire that warms the soul. I was eight years old when the cold sting of the world found its way into