It has been a good 4 months since I have done any form of "formal" writing. This is due to the uncontrollable need that life has for kicking us ordinary people right in the nuts. I have been busy, that is the easy way to say it. Busy dealing with my mental health, getting through graduation, dragging out a long vacation, basking in the attention of visiting family, aiding my formidable knack for unemployment, and trying to figure out how the hell to do the whole college thing. The list of both amazing and terrible experiences goes on and on. So rather than rant and rave about my experiences over the past months, I figured I would present you with my next piece.
Today, I woke up feeling rather anxious, and overly emotional (neither of which are abnormal for me). However, rather than sitting and trying my hand meditation for the umpteenth time, or bothering one of my amazing friends, I decided to go back to the one thing that always seems to give me a boost: Writing. As if you even had to guess....
While my writing sessions that are fueled by pure emotion and panic are usually kept to myself, I brought it up to a very close friend that I had written to make myself feel better. I also told her that what I had wrote would never be seen by the eyes of those around me. So this is me telling you, that I lied to my friend. I don't know what it is about this piece, or it's contents that makes me giddy to share it, but I figured I might as well just follow my instincts. Now, mind that this was written in a rather fragile and emotional state of mind, so it may come across dramatic, but I hope you enjoy regardless
Why am I crying?
All these emotions, thoughts and pangs of doubt. They swirl through my mind, leaving me breathless, and on the brink of decline.
It would be so easy.
To be swept up in the negative connotations of my feelings within, but instead I cry, and think about what it means to give in.
To give up.
I don't know what it is that keeps me alive. It's not an inner strength that I posses, because I have none. It's not the hopeful belief of clinging to a faith, because I don't have one.
So what could it be that keeps me standing at the center of the monstrous mess that is my head? Deep down, I know that it could only be one thing.
But why am I afraid to say it?
For now I will not wander in search of an answer. But rather ponder the same disconcerting question over and over.
Why am I crying?
I was talking to a very close friend of mine today, and we somehow stumbled onto the subject of one of our favorite musical groups, Twenty One Pilots. The lead vocalist of this musical duo, Tyler Joseph, is covered in numerous tattoos that cover his scars from self harming. He did this, perhaps, to keep his fans from worrying or being scared. He also wrote a song, that we believe to be an "unofficial letter" to his fans as well, titled "Guns for Hands" that sort of falls under the same subject of self-harm. Now, as you can probably guess by the name of this post, this song, as well as the discussion I had with my friend, inspired me to write. I will not share my insight into what the song means to me, because that is not the purpose of the piece, nor the song. However, I encourage you to listen to it for yourself, and try to discover what it means to you.
As I started to write the piece, all I found myself thinking about were a couple of my friends who have practiced self-harm. Then my mind jumped to the many people that I have seen with scars on their body from cutting into themselves and how they tried to hide them. Personally, I believe that if self-harm is something that you have gone through, and if you have resolved your issues and come out stronger than before, that your scars should be your trophies. They should be a badge of pride or honor, as they represent exactly how bad things were for you and how you explored the darker parts of your being to find a way out. How you felt looking at yourself in the mirror, thinking: "I need to stop this," and resolving to never put a razor to your skin again. How you told your family and friends what you had been doing to yourself and why, and seeking out help for the first time. And finally, how you came out of it all okay, better even. A stronger person with the experience of going to a place that only you know, and the memories of being able to fight through all of it despite the impossible odds.
Ultimately, I tried to capture all of that in this piece. How you go to the darkest places, before you can become your best person. I love the outcome, and I hope you all do too!
She says that she is ashamed.
I fail to see the reason why she wishes to hide the pain, when it will all be the same at the end of the day.
Why she needs to cover them up.
They are a part of her now, the scars. The marks on our wrists are a consistent a reminder of what made us who we are.
The pain has twisted her mind.
But just like it twists all of us into creatures of instinct and rage, it releases us into beings of maturity and age.
We are never the same.
So be proud of the mistakes that you have made. For they will help you tame the shame that you will feel inside, and replace it with pride.
And in time, she will learn this too.
As we all once did. The suffering will be unparalleled, but the experiences she passes through will hold true.
And she will be whole again.
Instead of fear, what she will hold dear is the legacy that they left behind. Ideas and morals that were instilled in her when she journeyed through the darkest parts of her mind.
Just like the rest of us here.
Here in the realm of higher possibility and opportunity. This resilience bestowed to us by the marks that almost shook the foundations of our personal security.
But without them, we are nothing. And so we leave her be.
Alone to face this pain and fear, that are slowly removed from her body with each and every tear. But with the hope in the back of her mind, that one day: she will get here.
I was driving home the other day, and took a road that wrapped sort of behind our house. It passed the backside of a park, where there was a large hill overlooking the very grassy plains of Aurora that go for miles. On the hill, was a couple, sitting with each-other. I don't know what possessed me to write this piece, and the only explanation is that the "Couple on the Hill" inspired me. So enjoy this rather different piece!
The last time that I saw her, we were at the park. Sitting on the far side of a large hill, away from the view of all the houses and families that lined the other side. We were away from it all. It was where we went to escape, her more than I. The view was not the greatest, but that is only because it was dirt and grassy hills going on for miles. It was nothing to me, but she said that it represented something more. “The nothingness is what life is supposed to be,” is what she had always told me. I never understood what she had meant by that before, but I think I am starting to understand it now. Now that I sit alone, in what was once our escape.
It was raining that day, when we were sitting on the hill. She was leaning into me, and I held her in my arms. It was nice, something that we had frequently done. We would talk sometimes, about her family and the things that were going on for her, or we’d sit in silence listening to one earbud of the same headset. But now I am here alone, looking out at the “nothingness”, thinking about what she meant by “what life is supposed to be”. Remembering her warmth and her smile. Her tears. How we would share them, and how I would make her laugh so hard that she couldn’t be sad anymore, or how I would just hold her face to my chest while she bellowed the pain out of her lungs.
I think that for her, what life was supposed to be, was peace and quiet. Ever since her little brother had passed, her parents never ceased to be screaming. She often told me about the cruel things they said to each-other, blaming each-other. Blaming her. She could never do anything to stop it, no matter how much she wanted to. I wanted to help her, but there was nothing that I could do besides give her my best advice. I would tell her that she needed to get away from the toxic environment that they were creating in that house. And she finally did, just not in the way that I had intended.
For me, what life was supposed to be, was taking us both away from all of it, and leaving forever. Never turning around. Never letting her return to be subjected to the poison that her parent’s relationship had become. That was all that I had wanted for her, to get away from what was making her so sad. I wanted to help her go wherever she wanted, give her the support she needed, give her the love that she deserved. I just wanted her to be happy again, even if that meant never seeing me again, I didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to be around them.
But now she is gone. They found her in her closet. A razor blade on the floor, and crimson carpet stains surrounding her. I didn’t hear from her parents, they left almost immediately after it all happened. Their house was put up for sale almost a day later. And her funeral was today. I was going to go, but then I came out here, and I sat down and remembered the last day that I saw her.
I can’t stop crying now, just remembering everything. Everything besides the light in her eyes that she once had. I forgot what the light looked like, because it disappeared when her brother passed. Mine disappeared when she did. But now I know about the “nothingness” that she was talking about, what she meant when she said it. It is how you feel when you lose somebody that you loved more than anything else, and how you feel when you can’t help but think about them every day after they are gone.
My mother said that she would be watching me from where ever people go after they die. That she would miss me more than I miss her.
But if that were true, why did she leave without me?
Written while listening to My Custom Writing Playlist on Spotify. Check it out HERE.
Thanks for Reading!