on having friends in the 21st century

The thing about life is that not everyone wants to show you their human side. They don’t want to talk to you about their hopes and fears and about what it feels like to be whoever they are when no one is watching. Instead, they surround themselves with beautiful people. People who make them forget what it feels like to be alone. And if those people want to be around them, it makes them feel like they’re worth a little bit more. Maybe they decide they want to be around you, because you add to their external ambiance. They invite you to parties so they can point to you from across the room and tell people, “see that girl, she’s mine…” And that works for you for awhile. Makes you feel good, that someone thinks enough of you to show you off. But you never really feel safe. Because you’re just a shiny new toy. Always kept at arms length. Maybe some friends are just meant to have fun together. For me, that has never been enough. It’s nothing more more than a political alliance. Always leaving me feeling empty and alone. Sometimes I wish that I could be so vain. Perhaps it would be easier if I could learn to build bridges that are made to be broken, instead of walls that I never manage to keep up.

waking up alive, when you’d rather be dead

this is the first, unedited journal entry from my time in the hospital after my suicide attempt. 

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of either someone screaming or a stranger asking to take my blood pressure. “Are you in pain?” they always ask. Oh, of course not, I think. I’m just fine. I watch the nurses here and I wonder what they must think of all of us. What they must think of me. I wonder if I am just another body to fill a bed. To them, this is just another day at the office. They come and go as they please. Sometimes I even hear their cell phones going off in the pockets of their scrubs. It must be nice to be free.

I look around and I am surrounded by so many sad people. No one seems to be getting any better. In fact, most seem to be getting worse. Each second I am here, I feel more and more miserable. No one has even talked to me about why I’m here. I don’t think this place is meant to make you better. I think it’s where they put you temporarily so they don’t have to deal with you. I can’t tell people this, but I still wish I had been successful in my attempt.

As I write this, I can barely even hold the pages of my journal together. They made me take out the string that ties the pages to the leather-bound cover. I guess they’re afraid I might use it to strangle myself. Little do they know, that would never be my method to commit suicide.

I have to ask for a new pencil every couple pages, because God forbid this place had a pencil sharpener. Lord know what all of us psychos might do with that. And we’re only allowed to have short pencils- no long ones. I cannot even imagine the reasoning for that and I truly don’t want to. I think the next time Ashley visits I might ask her to smuggle me in a pen.

This place makes me feel so hopeless. And the worst part is, I don’t even have the energy to fake it and get myself out.

 

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Letting go of the living

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do is to let of that which I so desperately longed to hold onto.

I’ve experienced death before I was ever prepared for the gravity of it’s consequences. It broke my heart in a way that I was certain I would never recover from. But recently, I have learned that sometimes there are losses we must endure which cut deeper than even the pain of death. These are losses not forced upon us by the cycle of life. You simply wake up one morning and realize that nothing will ever be as it once was. No matter how many different ways you remember it. No matter how much it once meant. The chapter is over. You are not the same, and neither is anything else.

And so you have to let go of things you still love. Ideas, feelings, and people. They’re all still there, within your reach. You can see them and touch them, but they’re not meant to stay with you. So you have to let them go. It hurts because their story does not end when you say goodbye. It will go on without you, just as yours will go on without them. And for some reason that has been harder to come to terms with than the death of anything I’ve ever loved. We can’t control the cycle of life and death, but we can control the path we choose to take while we are alive. Choosing to leave behind something that once gave you life… Resisting the temptation to sacrifice everything in an attempt to get that feeling back. I really can’t think of anything more painful.

 

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The truth about being 25

I always thought I would have my life figured out by the time I reached this age. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world expects me to be a lot farther along in that respect than I actually am. The truth is, I spend most of my time trying to make up for whatever poor decisions I made the day before. I don’t know who I want to become or how I’m supposed to get there, but I know who I am right now.

The truth about being 25 is that although I understand the meaning of the word moderation, I have yet to master the art of applying it to my real life. I eat cookies for breakfast and consider Subway to be a “healthy” alternative to my usual diet of Mcdonalds and pizza. Sometimes I cancel my plans to stay home watching Netflix and I haven’t gone to the gym in over a year.

The truth about being 25 is that I still don’t know how to have just one glass of wine and I always take more ibuprofen than the bottle says I should. I eat french fries in bed and leave the ketchup on the coffee table over night. I don’t ever show up on time unless I absolutely have to, and I spend money on paper plates and plastic silverware because I’m too lazy to do the dishes.

The truth about being 25, is that I don’t know how to change a spare tire and the inside of my car would probably make a homeless man cringe. I can’t seem to remember anyone’s birthday and one of my favorite past times is accumulating credit card debt. I still am, and probably always will be, the notorious “drunk texter.” I have a tendency to open up to the wrong people much too quickly, and to look for love, validation and acceptance in all the wrong places.

The truth about being 25 is that I’m starting to become aware of what I don’t want my life to become, but I have yet to figure out exactly what I do want. I make the same mistakes at least a couple of times and I push myself to the limit in almost every possible way. The truth about being 25 is that I don’t know what I’m doing and for the most part, I guess I’m pretty selfish. I try to make it look like I have things figured out, but I’m still just trying to find my way.

The truth about being 25 is that I’m not perfect and I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know what the future holds, or if I’ll make it out alive. The truth about being 25 is that sometimes you lose your way. You make a wrong turn or miss your exit, and you have to take the scenic route to get back to where you were. It’s okay to stop and take some pictures before you get back on the highway.

Because the truth about being 25 is that it’s mostly detours. And that’s best part of the trip. 

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