I love to write, but the only writing pieces that I can finish, are the sad ones. The ones where I explain that little pit of black in the back of my brain. I want to write about the beauty in this world because there is so much of it. Instead, only words filled with anger and something so suffocating fill the page. I hate that I can’t seem to put the good into words, but the bad comes so easily. I’ve tried to think and write positively, but it’s so much easier to write about the negative because it’s so much easier to see. Each piece of positively is sloppy and is not worth anyones time, but the depressing one’s are better. More relatable, I guess. It’s easier to fall into to that black pit and let it’s claws guide my hands on the paper. I know that I am a negative person and can only see a few steps ahead. I want to change that, but I don’t know how.
A burn on my hand sings in hot pain. The skin has already become a pale pink and shines a bit more than the rest. Pancakes. A burn for pancakes. Seems like a fair trade to me. I whisk together more of the mixture and water, scraping at the bottom of the bowl. When the off-white liquid becomes the same viscosity of glue, I pour it on the griddle. Steam rises and sizzles as the pancake cooks. I quickly add chocolate chips to the top and they sink a bit into the already thickening liquid.
My grandmother says I eat too much food because it’s the only thing in my life that I can control. That the amount of food I allow into my body is the one thing that only I can change. She’s right, but I’ll never tell her that. I don’t eat lunch or dinner or breakfast. Instead, I graze throughout the day. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I eat so much my stomach aches. Other days I don’t eat anything at all. I like to tell myself that I have control in other aspects like my emotions. That I can control the way my surroundings affect me, but we all know that’s far from the truth. My brain feels like a snow globe. Small, glittering flakes whirl around a tiny, glass container. Than, they settle on the bottom until someone comes back to shake up the globe again. They are dependent on everything, but me.
The edges of the pancakes change from shiny to matte. I pick up the black spatula and flip them. The surface of the almost-perfect circle is a delicious golden brown. I allow the pancake to bake a bit more and remove it from the black, hot surface. Waiting for the pancake to cool is hardest part, so I usually skip it. I eat the one that isn’t going to completely burn my tongue first. Almost-molten chocolate coats the roof of my mouth as I enjoy the pancake.
Weary eyes refuse to close for long. The sweet sleep that I used to know so well has left and refuses to return. I toss and turn as the inky dark of the room threatens to swallow me whole. I reach out from the safety of my warm blanket to grab my phone. The white light of the screen rips through the velvet night as the clock reads 3:05. I need to sleep. Instead, I let my thumps graze over letters in a keyboard. Each letter joins to create a word and each word a sentence. Soon, I have a piece of writing about my inability to fall asleep. Maybe now my eyes can give into the pleas of rest.
There are days where I don’t feel like I’m really there. I feel like the day just passes by and I’m a bystander. I just watch. The actions are not my own. My feet are their own person. I watch TV but the sound from it is just noise that doesn’t even register in my brain, but I stare at it anyway. There is a motor in my stomach that pushes me forward. I walk to work each day. Than walk back home. That’s it. That’s my day. I converse with my mom, but don’t really listen and answer with a voice that isn’t mine. By the end of the day, I don’t remember what I did. I don’t remember who I talked to at work or what I ate. I just remember that I got up, went to work, and now I’m home. No details. No memories.
My room is a mess. Clothes litter my floor. Dishes inhabit my desk. Dark circles hang on my eyes. The tan I gained from the beach has faded to my original skin tone. I should get up and do something worth my time. I should get up and be social, but when I did, I just got turned down again and again. Each time I tried to invite some one over, they forgot or said no, causing my shoulders to grow heavier. When I try, I get turned down. When I don’t, no one cares. My sister lives with her head up high and a light around her. How does she do it? I can’t go more than a month without feeling so heavy I can’t get out of bed. She has friends who care. She’s not afraid to live. Mom says I should go back on my meds, but that thought sends a shudder down my spine. Mom says I should make new friends, but I’m scared. I’m scared of what they will think. I can’t tell my mom that. I really tried to be happy and I was for a month or two, but my mind caught up with me. I’m stuck.
I am not naïve. I am not weak. I am not stupid. I know that people are hurting. I’ve seen it. I may not drink or have sex or smoke pot, but, my dear friend, do not be mistaken. I know it happens. Why do you look down on me? Why do look at me like a child when, in fact, I am older? It’s almost like you pity me. You pity my lack of recklessness. Well, I am afraid that palace you have built will fall. You will no longer feel like you’re on the top of the world when you wake up with a splitting headache and a few sparse memories you regret. I may hate myself for letting my teenage years pass me by. I may even hope for a another chance. I will, however, never hope that I am like you. I will never wish for your condescending glare or your harsh tongue. Do not treat me like a fragile piece of cracked china. A piece that could break with the slightest touch. Look at me as an equal. An equal with different experiences and a different past, but a fellow human being none the less.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit and watch as my sister tears herself apart from the inside out. I can’t watch another one slip farther away from reality. I don’t know what to do. My mother is trying her best to stay afloat, but I think she’s slipping. I am trying to stay afloat as well, but I’m not doing very well. My dad’s side of the family is tearing at the seams and he’s trying to mend it. My mother’s family has always been torn apart. I can’t just sit and watch as shit hits the fan, but I can’t do much either. I’m told to wait and keep my mouth shut. I am only sixteen after all. My opinion does not matter. I want to scream. I want to stomp and yell and tell them what they did was wrong or to stop holding onto the past. I can’t though. I can’t because they’re all dealing with their own things in their head. Things that I don’t pretend to understand.
I’ve been on antidepressants for about four years and I stopped taking them couple of weeks ago. Being on meds for me was interesting. I started going on meds in the sixth grade and now I’m in the tenth. I have next to no memory of my life in middle school. I remember who my friends were and favorite teachers were, but I don’t remember any events. I don’t even remember much from last year. It’s kind of scary how much of my memories are missing. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to make memories now and maybe learn how to cope with something I’ll have to deal with forever. I also did something very stupid. When I decided not to take my meds anymore, I didn’t slowly stop taking them. I just decided to quit taking them abruptly. I felt like crap, not just emotionally, but physically. I was bloated and couldn’t focus on anything. Every time I moved, I felt like I was being shocked throughout my body. By the time spring break is over, the medicine will hopefully be out of my system. I can’t help but wonder what it will be like without them during school. I’ll keep you guys posted.
As I look at the familiar faces that surround me in a classroom, I begin picking out different personalities. Each person has a certain style, taste in music, and hobbies. But me? I am afraid that line is blurred. Depending on who I am near, my interests morph into something new. I don’t know who I am. I could not explain to you my personality because it changes to much to be identifiable. I know I should just be myself, but how can I when I don’t know who I am? How can I be myself when I don’t know who I want to be? This may just be apart of growing up, but it’s so frustrating.