My therapist tapped her pen, and looked at me
with her chin in her hand, frustration filled the room.
“I think you enjoy being sad.”
There was silence for a minute or two, because
there was a small conflict in my mind, no, I don’t
enjoy this sadness. Yet it’s the only time I feel
alive, because it’s the only god damn time I feel
something. When your bones feel so heavy and
every breath you take you feel like you’re breathing
just to die, and when you need to talk to yourself for a
good 30 minutes after you wake up just to get the
motivation to move, sometimes feeling something,
a cut on the wrist, a tear on your cheek, a cry in the
middle of the night, it means more. It means that you’re
actually alive, because most the time I feel like I’m dead,
I wish I was dead. Sadness means I’m not dead.
“No, I don’t.
Genocide is defined by the United Nations Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide as “any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such: killing members of the group; causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group; [and] forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.”