Sometimes
Sometimes . . . tears help . . . friends hurt you . . . parents don't understand . . .you wish you could tell . . . the rain makes you smile . . . you laugh at something sad . . . you wish you could change . . . you want to be someone else . . . you laugh in the rain . . you cry in the sunshine . . . you love something grotesque . . . you hate something beautiful . . . you want to be alone . . . you want someone to watch you . . . you feel alone with people around you . . . you feel accompanied with no one near you . . . you hate a friend . . . you love a stranger . . . you regret something you think . . . you wish you had said something . . . you search for a thrill . . . you run from fear . . . you get lost in your thoughts . . . your free in your mind . . . you wish for something impossible . . . you look for a reason to scream at nothing . . .you hide who you are . . . your riding a bike . . . your driving a car . . . you write what you feel . . . you don't tell anyone . . . you keep secrets . . . you exclude yourself . . . your scared . . . you hate a song . . . writing makes you feel better.
Your Road
Picture a road. Your driving on it. It's a straight road and there's scenery on both sides. One kind of scenery. It does't change. Just keeps on running, on and on. Then the road starts turning. It goes one way, then another. THere could be a storm if you want. The scenery on each side changes. There could be hills or mountains. Others are around you, some on bikes, some walking, some in cars. This is the social road. People on bikes are open to other, but rushing through life. They will let people see the true them. The Walkers take their time. They let everyone see who they are and love to stop and smell the road-side roses. The Drivers hide from everyone. They rush by, rarely looking at The Cyclers or The Walkers, instead fixed on getting ahead. Sometimes there are Insecure Drivers and they attempt to run over Cyclers and Walkers. Sometimes they succeed. Sometimes the others are to strong to be knocked down. So I have one question. How are you traveling?
The Cycling
Ever notice how one thought always follows another? Then another thought comes after that. I read a book, and the author called it "the Cycling." I liked that. You think one thing like 'God, I was annoying today.' and you start to wonder, who else noticed? Did I do anything else? Do they wish I would leave them alone? Thoughts like these run through your mind, chasing each other in an eternal circle. They don't go away either, not till you physically will the thoughts away. And as you know, or will know, thats difficult. So you don't. You wallow in the sweet self-pity you pile on yourself. You know you shouldn't, even as you do, and you can picture the pitying or disgusted faces of everyone you know. You don't want that, but somehow you put yourself down even more. It becomes a game. How far can I go before I cry? How much can I scream before I'm heard? How deep can I cut before someone sees? Your cycling starts again, different this time. Over and over it goes until you make a life changing choice.
Give up or get help.
Let Me Explain
It's not planned. It never is planned. You'll be perfectly fine for years, and then suddenly it changes. Someone says something to you or you go through something stressful. Next thing you know your crying into your pillow at night and you are unable to smile during the day. Sometimes you can pretend to be alright. Very rarely, though, do you give a genuine smile. No one notices, or they don't care enough to bring it up. You want to tell them how you feel, but know you'll end up looking like a needy child just looking for attention. You leave hints, reading books about depression, writing stories about suicide. Still no one noises you. When your alone there is only one thing you want. You want someone you trust, someone who won't pity you because of your feelings but gibe you a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold and an air to confide in. But with your new feelings, you lost trust in everyone You don't tell anyone anything. You hide somewhere. You lie. You feel guilty. You berate yourself. You lie in self pity. Do you know how you got his way? Here, let me explain.
A Few Words
Funny how a few words, maybe even one sentence, is like a knife in your stomach.You were walking with your set friend when it started. You guys were walking to choir. When you got there you grabbed your folders, hers purple with a yellow hand, yours white with butterflies and rainbows, you really wish you had a different folder. You both sit down and talk. You can't even remember what you were talking about, but you remember one sentence. "My father and I noticed your rude a lot." Steel knife, shoved right under your ribcage. You don't feel it much at first, the shock stops you. You brush off the comment. The next time someone says something, it's once again your best friend. Walking int he hallway you hear your friend say "Your not very nice, you've got to lie sometimes to make people happy." The knife twists. The last straw that sent you over, that one tiny nudge, you are lunch talking about how your mom accused you of having no friends, and everyone you thought cared about you say, "Who says you've got friends." Their joking, but it still hurts.
Faking It
Day by day you start to get worse. It hurts more an dmore and it's harder to hide. You force the smile, become loud and clumsy just so you can hide. You make excuses for your odd behavior. You laugh loudly, say rude things, and when you go home you mentally beat yourself for it. You tell yourself to stop being a jerk, that everyone either wisher syou;d change or go away. Harder and harder it gets to fake it. You get to a point where you can't sleep at night and instead stay up till the early morning hours, crying your heart out. You wish you could change and truly try to. In the morning you get up, go to school, and attempt to stay awake in class. You live a few weeks like this, but one day, when you wake up in the morning, you can't eat. You try to swallow, but it's hard, and when you finally do, you feel sick. For weeks, maybe about form, you can't eat breakfast. Then one day, you can't eat lunch. It just won't go down. People, your supposed friends, tell you that you should eat more and that, erin if your not hungry, eating is good. Every day at lunch you eat a few fries for their sake, and wonder, how long till I can't eat at all.
Reaching Out
Your mask finally cracks one day, and your true face is shown. It's a dusqusting, depressing, bothersome face.You don't smile when you go to the bus stop. Don't focus on anything on the ride to school. In commons you sit with your back facing you friends. Non of them make a comment. No one even seems to notice you. Until you hear "Hey, your acting funny today, are you feeling alright?" You know the voice even before you turn to see the face. It's your best friend, the same one who started it all. She looks concerned, and her voice sounds nervous. You aren't impressed. You tell her your fine, just tired. She doesn't look convinced. Later in the day you show her something you wrote a few months back. It has to do with the pain you feel constantly, how you wish you could cut yourself but someone would see, other personal stuff that's been dragging you down. You expect her to give you a hug. Say you'll live through it. She reprimands you, scolds you like you would a child. But she doesn't sound like she cares. It makes you feel like a kicked dog. She was only trying to make you better. She made it worse.
Just a Few Scars
At the beginning of all this you had felt like to much pressure and stress was being piled on you. You needed to somehow leak that detestable, tense feeling you had in your lungs out. So one day, while running the mile, you dug your nails into the back of your hand. You gasp as you feel the cold air caress your hand, the near blood deep infliction on the back of your hand pulsing and stinging. You like the feeling, staring at the shiny wound. This is the first time you've caused yourself injury and a pang of pleasure runs through your body. It's then that you realize your a masochist. Now you dig your nails into the back of your hand whenever you get the chance. Your friends don't know how you got the wounds, and they joke with you saying your 'cutting' yourself. They have no idea. Your mother see's them and recognizes the nail caused inflictions. You have to stop. But after a few months everything catches up. The stress, the homework, grades, money. Your family, your friends, your thoughts . . . everything finally catches you. You cut again. You like seeing the scars on your hand.
You Can Help
You met someone. In the depths of despair, you met someone. Your father had dragged you to another one of his friends house and once again, you were moping in the corner, trying to drown out your despair with nothing. Sitting on the couch you read. You ignored people for the most part. Then he walked up to you, sat down beside you and said "Hi." You glanced up at him curiously, offering him a smile and a repeat of his earlier statement as a greeting. He told you he was going to camp with you and the both of you started to talk. he told you of his fear of cows, how he liked movies with a moral, and about a book called "The Life of Pi." You told him of your fear of spiders, your friend and how you liked rap music. He likes the peppy, light music. He offered you his arm. You took it. He explained court oust as he led you into the kitchen. You got food and talked. Together you went back to the living room and sat next to him on the bench and played the piano together. He played simple, beginner music. You played complex pieces. You like his playing better.
Trying to HEAL
You were crying again. In bed you lay, curled sideways around your pillow, tears seeping out of your tightly shut eyelids. The knife had been twisted again after your mother had gotten upset with you. In your mind, your a disgrace to everyone. So you let it out at night, the onl time you let go of the facade since your best friend found out. No one can help you. So you cry. You bully yourself out of your shell and make yourself hurt. But tonight you want to heal, so you think of good things in your life. You search for something to make you feel better. Finally, you remember the one person who has easily drawn a true smile out of you since this started. He likes light and happy music. He cares about you and so you open your computer and listen to 'Honey'. He liked that song. You trust him. You relax a little, even though your still crying. That little hole right under you ribs where the knife had gouged you isn;t as empty anymore. In fact, it feel warm, in the comfortable, blanketed way, not the scalding hot metal way. You like that feeling, but know you'll quickly change back.
Is That . . . BAD?
Alone you sit, once again. In Science you barely do anything else. Looking around, you see the teacher walking toward you with a smile. You can go sit with other people, he says, so you won't be alone. You know the truth, and it appears no one else does. Lonely isn't bad, lonely is nice, it's comfortable. No obligations to start a conversation or respond to a comment. It makes your ribcage feel empty, in a good way. A way that has told you , hey, your gonna be okay, Your heart is still in here, along with your lungs. Your going to be okay. And you believe that little voice. You breath in a content sigh and smile just a little, then tell your teacher, thanks anyway. He turns and leaves. You don't get up. You don't understand why no one else think about being lonely like you. Everyone else appears to cherish another persons company whenever they can get it, while you cherish above all the hours you are alone in the house. After some thought, you decide not to try and understand. The bell rings, signaling your forced re-entry into the social world. Some of your friends approach you, and you force on a smile. Maybe someday, you can get away.
Read For Pain
Sitting alone in your basement room you read. You always read. Sci-fi, fantasy, humor, adventure, mythology. Most of all, or the ones you like best at least, are the ones that burn. The ones that twist the steel knife. The ones that make you cry. You laugh at it all, with sing you had it like them. Parents who didn't care if you cut, friends who were to oblivious to notice. Then you feel guilty, you really love your friends and family and feel guilty for wishing they would change for your own selfish needs. So the best you can do to feel that pain is read. Read and hope someday you can fall asleep and wake up rested. Read and hope your step-dad will stp being a controlling know-it-all. Read and hope someday your mom will understand she isn't the most trusted person in your life. Read and hope. Read and dream. Cry. Hurt yourself. Feel guilty. Fake it. Laugh at your pathetic self. Get better at pretending. Wish for a change. Hope it will always be the same. Cry again. Read. You always look for emotional books. Books about . . . difficult subjects. BOoks about suicide. Books about depression. And you all time favorite books, where you envy the characters so much, books about cutting.
Do I Care
Your family. A pillar. A pillar full of termites. Imperfections, misunderstandings, and maybe someone who has been trying to cut themselves away from this pillar. Your mother. You love her, but only because she is your mother, only because you have to. If you had met her and she hand;t been your mother, you wouldn't have giber her a second thought. Maybe not even a first. Your sister is just like your mom, though you have a stronger bond to your sister, feeling as if you have to protect her and guide her because of the wrong decisions she's been making. Your brother, a math genius, a little brat and jerk. You love him. Only because you have to. Your father, however, is one of the most important people in your life. He's a friend, not just a father, although you still call him 'daddy'. You watch movies together, talk about philosophy and current events. You read the same books, watch the same anime's and laugh together. He never looks down on you. When you hug him your hugging your best friend. When he talks to you, you are talking to an equal. When he sits next to you and tells you how important you are to him and how much he loves you, how happy he was when he first held you . . . his is the only one that can make you cry happy tears.
Maybe They Don't Hear
There you sit, your friends all sitting around you. You've been watching them for a while. Every time one person stops talking, you jury to jump into the conversation. They don;t seem to notice, instead continuing to speak amongst themselves. They are trying to make you feel welcome, you know that, but they forget sometimes, and you remember, I'm just here as a back-up plan, in case one of them needs someone to talk to, and the others aren't available. Or maybe, they are sending you a message when they don't answer. Leave me alone, they say, we don't want you here. Cruel thing, they try to say without looking at you. Words of rejection. Words of annoyance, of hate. Worst of all is the two words you barely like to think of. They hurt a lot, they were also the first words to bring you close to tears when you were younger. Shut up, they say avoiding eye contact. Shut up and leave us alone. They don't want you there, they were all just to nice to deny you a spot in their circle, but now they regret letting you in. You know all this. So you pretend like you don't, But you back off . . . for a little while, then habit kick in and your back to interrupting thing. Back to you.
That One Last Step
Your least favorite number. One. So close, yet the hardest number to overcome. Difficult. Painful. It's even harder when what your one step behind starts jumping ahead. You struggle, work harder than you ever have before and barely make that one last step, but when you look up, the goal is two steps in front of you. She's just to good. So you work harder, push yourself past you limit and collapse trying. But you get back up. You try again. For every one step of yours your goal works two steps. You know you shouldn't be upset, she's getting so far. She's doing really well at what she loves, but a large part of you hates her for it. You resolve to stop trying, and for a while ti works. But then you get bored and start working again, but in your down time your goal has gotten just that much further ahead of you. It's harder than before. You want so badly to give up, but know after a while you will likely stand back up again. So you continue on, trying not fail. It doesn't work. It never does. Your goal is to far to see now, you don't even know what direction it ran. You have to wander blindly. Nothing stands out, no landmarks. Your looking for an invisible prize.
Think Back
No one ever asked you what's your favorite memory, so you ask yourself. Thinking reviewing, you finally settle on four memories, memories you would die to keep. One of them is of yourself in the kitchen of a 'strangers' house with your best guy friend and as you start to walk back to the living room, he offers his arm to you. You take it and he leads you to the piano where you both play for each other. Another memory is of you and your best girl friend. Your both in choir and getting ready to dance to Dance Revolution and she sets her head down on your shoulder, hugging you. You've always loved her hugs and your head on hers. You love it when she puts her head on your shoulder. It gives you the feeling of being depended on. Another memory, one that is not so clear, is of you and your old best friend, who you've fallen out of touch with. The last memory is you lying in your bed at your fathers house. He kneels next to your bed and holds your hand, telling you how happy he is that your around, how he loves being around you. He says he loves you wit all his heart. You hug him. He hugs you back. And he leaves.
Sorry
First to your best friend. Or the person you call your best friend. Your sorry for not eating or sleeping enough. Your sorry for complaining to her about it. Your sorry for being anti-social, but most of all, your sorry you told her. Next you are sorry about calling people 'idiots'. You made to big a habit of it and probably hurt peoples feelings. You also want to apologize to your sister and brother for always having such a short temper. Next, your mother. Your sorry you lied about the scars and that you are hiding part of your life from her. To your step-dad for talking about him behind his back. To Kenzi, for always bugging her; interrupting her while talking to others, expecting her full attention to be on you and you alone. Finally you want to apologize to Kayla. She is a great girl, one you always enjoy being around. You've insulted her by accident many times. You both could have great, maybe even best friends. Your sorry you always went with the crowd and most of all your sorry you pushed her away. All of you. We're sorry.
Someone There To Make You Laugh
You've found another someone. Now you have two people. One to comfort you and now one to make you laugh. Everything she says makes you smile and every time she laughs, so do you. It feels good and one hour with her is enough to get you through the day. She talks, you smile. She laughs, you laugh. Your such easy friends, and yet you never hang out after school You know there should be a reason but you don't see one. Maybe you just don't want to shatter the illusion of perfection, the biggest pedestal holding you up. And you lie to her. And your table. You lie so often that you have a false history. You don't care, though. To you they are real. More real classmates and your teachers. You laugh with them and talk with them inside your head. Your favorite characters who've died. Your relatives and friends who you never met or never existed. You know people would think your strange if yo said anything. So you don't. Not even the three people you love worst. Not a word, not a hint. They'll never know.
Isn't It Funny
Better. Not completely better, but better. Your genuine smile shows a lot more often. You laugh now. You even feel better. You still wonder if you annoy your friends and it hurts when people call you a failure even though you know they're kidding. Nonetheless you feel great. This has had some effects on you. You get thirsty a lot more often but your not as hungry. Your best friend calls you anorexic because of it and sure it bothers you, but it doesn't hurt, you know your just not hungry. each breath isn't heavy anymore, just full and thick. Your laughing right now. Your friend just told you her experience in orchestra. It feels good to laugh so freely. Let them judge you let them ridicule you, It will not effect who you are and who you want to be anymore. You recognize the complements you get and don't shy away from touch as often. You don;t let people tell yo who you are. So here is to your old life, soon to be distant, and here is to your next life. Tonight, you will die and a new, better you will be born from the phoenix ashes.
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