Reflections

Re - read my poem today. The one about suicide.  I thought of it due to yet another occurrence at my former high school. My cousin was friends with the girl. I looked at her Facebook and couldn't help but cry. She was only 15, and so beautiful. It hurts my heart to think about it.

I was there once. A little younger than that when the thoughts inhabited my head,  my being. As I got older it was easy to look back at those moments and snigger at myself. How immature I'd been. I knew nothing of true misery. I've learned more of it since but never been driven back to that place. But when I stop and think about it, truly,  how can misery be measured? As young people we're constantly being told by adults that we're being dramatic, that life goes on, we don't have it as bad as we think we do. That may be true. I know for a fact it gets worse.  But only experience will learn you that. You really do get stronger.

That doesn't change the fact that, while not as bad as it could be or even would be, the misery is real. And everyone seeks validation. We don't want to be told our feelings aren't real or that they're unrealistic. Because we are feeling them damn it! It's important to have someone just understand. Just to nod and say "it's ok to feel this way." To maybe even hold our hand.

When I wrote the poem it flowed from me so effortlessly I never really thought about what it might mean or what I was trying to convey. But as I was thinking about it today I realized; my methods of dealing with pain have evolved. I no longer scratch at my arms with knives or nails. And for a while I'd scoff at those that did, thinking how immature those people must be. After all, I was 12 when I started, 13 when I stopped. Instead I pollute my body with cigarettes and alcohol and sometimes other things. My self mutilation now has a convenient guise I call art.

Is it better? For me it is. For years I tricked myself into believing these were just behaviors I enjoyed, and believe me I enjoy them. But they are an outlet for my pain and suffering.

But morally, is my method better than hers? Better than his? Maybe not. But I am still here, and I am beyond thankful for that.