Literary Persuits and other Ramblings

Tag: emo story

Was it a Dream?

It was just over a year. Longer perhaps, but definitely went over the year mark.

The beginning was happy. Not new and shiny happy, but more of a comfortable fit of a favorite pair of jeans. The kind of happy where the world finally makes sense, and everything that lead you to that moment was just part of the journey. The kind of happy that made you feel as though you have arrived home after a long time.

I still feel that way. One look, a touch, sends me reeling back into the feeling of comfort and safety. The feeling of belonging.

I made a choice, I walked away. I gave up.

A year and no one knew, at least not anyone I was friends with. I was hidden in the shadows like a terrible secret. A secret that one is so ashamed of they almost try and forget that it ever happened. It was happening though. It was there. It was real.

Or for the most part I think it was. There is no evidence that it ever happened. No social media comments or social reality. According to the world it didn’t happen. Life continued and no one knew the truth. If the truth is what the collective think, then the truth is that there was no relationship. Of course there were reasons for all of the secrecy, but as time went the reasons started to sound like the logic of a child.

Then the disappearing acts started happening. Hocus pocus, abracadabra and alakazam. Gone for a day, a week. Almost a month. I was rejected. Not even important enough to be included. Heaven forbid I point out it was wrong. May I be struck down for saying that I need attention too. Why did I not understand what was happening? Why couldn’t I just let it be?

Why does all of this have to hurt so much. Five minutes to delete everything from my life.

That is all it took.

Five minutes to delete a couple of digital photographs that no one ever saw. The only evidence that may have proved that something had happened.

Was it a dream? Dreams have happy endings.

No, this was more like a nightmare. A place where I did not exist. Where I was not as important as anything else in the world.

My significant other was my world and I was not even on a list of priorities. I existed only when and if I was wanted, like a toy which could be discarded at any moment.

This is not the first time, although it may be the first time I gave away all my love. The question is rather why do I let this continue? Why do I try and justify being treated with such disregard? Do I really think that little of myself that I would stay and be treated like a ghost?

No. I do not. I walked away.

I may have left my heart behind but I walked away.

And there is not even a photograph of us to prove that it wasn’t a dream.

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On the Edge of a Blade

This post is specific to my experience with cutting and self mutilation. If you are sensitive, judgmental or recovering cutter you may not want to continue reading.

I can’t remember the first time. Nor can I remember a time when I didn’t have scars.

All I know is it starts with a feeling. A crushing weight, somewhere between sadness so intense you can’t breathe let alone cry and rage so strong that your body shakes with the violence. Somewhere between the two is this perfect emotional helplessness.

Everything rushes passed in a haze yet time seems to slow down to a crawl. The concept of time is irrelevant. It is ongoing and eternal. A deep dark hungry abyss with no end. All you can do is fall through it.

Then there is the cold. Freezing from the inside. No matter what you do you cannot get warm. It doesn’t matter the temperature outside. It doesn’t matter how many layers you wear.

It is cold.

You would think that there is a thought pattern to it. But there is nothing. It is like your rational mind has take a vacation leaving you with nothing but a hurricane of emotions which feel as though they are tearing away at your very soul.

Everything is primal. You want to scream and cry and fight but there is nothing there.

No voice. No tears. No energy.

You are betrayed by your body, by your brain, and left to rot with whatever demon hunts you. You are stuck playing cat and mouse with yourself and there is no escape.

It is all of this, but not. It is so much more complex yet somehow more simple.

I guess the first cut can be understood by an alcoholic as the first taste of the alcohol or by a druggy as the first hit. That moment when everything starts to calm down. When you are finally given release and you can start to breathe again.

It is in the tearing of the skin by the blade. The way the skin parts so easily. At first, there is a moment when the skin lies open and all that is there is white flesh. Then the blood pools in. It is hot and red and oh so cleansing. The red little beads that leave a little trail and fall to the ground are like the tears you are unable to shed. The physical pain in more bearable than the emotional pain.

Each cut is like a breath of clean fresh air deep into your starved lungs. Each cut is a measure of peace. A moment of calm in the middle of a storm.

When it is done there is nothing left. Just emptiness. Everything that was clawing inside and ripping your very being apart has bled out on the floor. There is nothing left to be felt. Just pure emptiness.

The aftermath is easy to deal with. Blood is easy to clean. The stinging of the cuts keeping the emotional whirlpool from sucking you to the depths again. Keeping you numb. Empty.

As the cuts start to heal and you watch the skin knit itself back together, you feel a measure of relief. Slowly everything is healing. It might not be as perfect as it was before, but it is over.

Until the next time the storm threatens to swallow you whole again.

I know that it is different for different people, but that is what cutting was for me.

 

The Promise

You lie there, in the dark, watching her sleep beside you. You take in her scent, watch her breathe, trace outlines on her skin. She is dreaming, you hope that it is about you. She smiles secretly in the dark of the room, and you begin to feel tendrils of fear flicker through you.

You barely acknowledge them at first, but with each breath she takes, the stronger they get. You realize how fragile this moment it. How fragile it all is. She can be taken from you at any moment; swiftly and silently. A stalker grabbing hold of its prey, and there would be nothing you could do to stop it. To save her.

You cuddle up closer to her, feeling her heartbeat with yours and you promise her you will never let anything happen to her. You promise that you will be there for her. That no matter what, you will always answer her call. No matter how silent it is.

But when the day dawns the fears are left in the dark of the night. You fall back into your normal routine. Taking for granted that she will be there, always, when you call. Days turn into weeks, months continue to pass you by, and yet your promise remains forgotten in the depths of the dark of one lonely night.

You look at her, trace your fingers along the lines of her face. She is so beautiful, so fragile. You remember you silent promise all those ages ago, and wonder what happened. How did you miss her call? She looks just as she did back then, content, with a secret smile on her face. You want to tell her how much you love her, but the men are closing the lid. You scream at them, fight them off. Deny that she has gone. Deny that you weren’t there for her.

All that’s left now is ashes, and memories that are already beginning to fade. You remember her laugh, her smile. You throw the ashes off the edge of her favourite spot. You had never once taken the time to climb up here with her. Not once. You had always been too busy. Too preoccupied with your own demons to see hers. There are no tears left, and as you watch the last of the ashes float way In them you can see her smiling, laughing. You can see the love in her eyes. The love she had for you.

Hours pass, as do days. You torment yourself with every means possible. Continually, you punish yourself not being there when she needed you the most. Your world, your soul, is black. You are a void. Nothing. No one knows you; no one even bothers to find out. You exist from one day to another, finding an escape from her touch, her scent, her smile. That secret smile she had which haunts your every dream.

What feels like an eternity passes, and you find yourself back at that spot. Her spot. You scream in anguish for the person you have become. Dark and twisted by pain and rage. By the guilt you feel. She wouldn’t recognize you now. You can no longer hear her soft laughter anymore, or feel the way she felt when her skin was pressed against yours. You can barely see that secret smile she had, it has faded from your dreams.

As the tears flow and the racking sobs tear through every fiber of your body, you catch a faint scent, barely there on the wind. You cry out to her, begging her to forgive you, for you can never forgive yourself. You see her, just pass the edge.

You try to grab her, to hold her, to feel her just one last time. Something grabs you, a warm hand on yours. The touch melts the dark inside away, and eases some of the pain. You turn, expecting to see her in front of you, given back to you by some miracle.

It is not her, you find, but someone else. She doesn’t look the same, but she also has a secret smile, and eyes filled with love. She holds out her hand, and you take it.

She stays with you, Answers your every call. Never forgets you are there. You sit across from her and can’t help but trace the line of her smile. You make another promise. This time the promise is not only to yourself, but to to your love and to your love lost. Never again will you forget her. Forget that she is there. Never forget to answer her when she calls.

This time, you promise that you will keep your promise made to a girl with a secret smile.

The Loser, a black hole, some friends and a lifeline.

It is amazing how quickly a song can take you back to a moment in your past, like a reminder of how crappy being a teenager really was.

There are many stories of people talking about their horrid teen years. of being the outcast at school. The lone person.

Was I that person? No, not exactly. I was different, but I was different within a group of different people. Did we accept each other? For the most part. I guess as much as teenagers trying to fit in, make sense of life and school and pretty much everything. All waiting for that day we became an adult and everything would make sense.

The following was something I wrote when I was 18. It was during a very bleak period of time in my life. So bleak I may have projected it onto everyone around me.

I called it ‘A Tale of a Black Hole and a Group of Friends’

‘We all knew that it would be one of us. It was an unspoken agreement. One of us would get fed up, feel more hopeless than usual and just do it. The question was who would it be? Who would be the first to go and how would they go. It was only a matter of time, nothing more… and definitely nothing less.

We all spend our days standing on the edge, wondering who it will be, how it will go, and would we really miss them. Or worse, if it was us, would we be missed or would we fade out, like a background actor in a theatrical play. It makes little difference though; it’s our fear that drives us.

We around the black hole that could signify the difference of a life corrected or a life ended and we wait. Some of us try to pull away, grasping to ideals that will set them free of the path chosen when they all became friends. Interchangeable, we stand wondering how we got to be so much luckier the people next to us, wondering how they could cope with a life so much worse. We all wait, our demons holding us tightly and refusing to let us leave, until one of us takes the plunge. Who will it be?

Will it be the girl who boys walk straight passed, who never understands why she’ll never be loved and waits for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from herself? Would the need of someone to hold her in the dead of night drive her insane and will she take the plunge? Will we miss her and notice she is gone? Or will life pass her by, nothing in the long term will remind us she was ever there?

We stand without noticeable struggle, waiting for our defeat, wondering if it will be slow or if it will be over before we fully understand it.

Alone stands the boy who is afraid to be loved, who has a voice of an angel and flirts like the devil. Will he go, just plunge himself into the darkness for fear he could never keep the love away? Will we miss him, the girls in their infatuation and the boys in their admiration? Or will all thee feelings vanish with him and we’ll never remember his name, just that there was possibly someone there?

Will it be the Love that kills one of them, whether it is the lack of Love or the fear of it? We stand and wait patiently, itching to know who it’ll be, with our suspicions and our thoughts, hoping against hope that it wont be us, wanting to survive, but not wanting to be selfish at the same time.

The black hole seems closer than it was earlier. Maybe it’s trying to choose someone itself, tired of waiting for the demons to take control and push one of us in. Still, we wait and watch.

The most nervous is the boy who we all love to hate, who takes our feelings and hang them out to dry while indulging himself on any trend he can be addicted to. The more he tries to walk away, the closer he gets, his fear of the black hole pushing him closer and almost making him fall. We know he comes from a messed up family, and his exposure of us is a defense, but we long to see if he will be the first to go, his selfishness causing him to take the plunge before any or our demons can even try.

The black hole carries on swirling, calling to each of us in turn, with its seductive voice and promises. We long to give in to its lies, just so we can rest our heads and our feet. We all have been standing far too long.

Still there stands the girl who has it the worst, the girl who hates herself so much, she buries it in alcohol and camera shots. Bored by those who don’t drink, she stumbles at the edge with no one to catch her. Swearing she’ll take her demon with her, they stand there, clutching each other like long lost lovers, while she tries to seduce any boy into becoming her lifeline. We all know she’ll fall eventually, but will she fall into the black hole of our fears and take the plunge?

Or will it be the boy who everyone thinks is funny and witty, who hides his emotions in jest. Will his final joke be to plunge himself in the black hole, while all of us stand there and laugh. He seems so far from the edge, but we all know that sometimes what we see isn’t always as it is. The reality is far stranger than the fiction.

All alone, with no one close to her, stands the girl with the battle scars visible. She holds these people at arms length, wondering what her next move will be. Forever cautious or the black hole. She has already put a foot in, just to see how it fits. Although she is free of it, she can feel its warmth and knows she will be easily seduced by it. Just one more scar, and she will take the plunge. And unlike the others, she listens to her demon speak, hoping to find a way to make it go away, knowing that someone has to take the plunge and knowing in her heart that it should be her, because she deserves to stay the least.

But still we wait. Watching the black hole, trying to avoid each others gaze, least someone sees how close we are to the edge. When we look up, we see the tattered and worn connections that hold us together, so worn that if one of us does take the plunge, no one will really follow. We all know someone has to go, and we don’t want to be attached to that person.

So we wait, holding on to our small little rays of light trying to make sense of it all. Trying not to be the one who falls. We deceive each other, pretending we further than we are, knowing they are closer that what they say. And we wait. No one can change what is about to happen, because there are plenty more around the circle who are bound by us to stay. They to can take the plunge in stead of one of us, but we know in our hearts that in order for it to be really over, it has to be one of us.

So we slowly choose how we will go, from suicide, to drugs. From alcohol, to reckless driving. We know that inevitably one of us must go, and that at least it will be on our terms.

We all hope that it will be quick though.’

I was right about one thing. One of us must go. The only thing is back then I thought it meant that one of us was going to die. End it all. More specifically, I thought it was going to be me.

Where my lifeline came from, and how my life changed so drastically I will never fathom. Life did indeed change. It still remains a dark scary place that I remember from being a teenager.

However, I have learnt to see the wonder and amazing aspects of life. That it is not just one big tragedy but a mish-mash of many different things making up a big picture that I hope to look back on one day and say ‘Hey, it was one hell of a ride, but it was worth every second.’