From The Heart of Me

On the outside, I’m everything everyone thinks I am. Young, independent, and talkative. My life as they know it is happy and good. I have friends and family that love me, my grades in school are good, I have goals for my life and a true and earnest desire to be close to God.

                But judging a book by its cover, whether in a good way, or a bad way, is something our culture has always done. If they seem alright on the outside, then that must mean they are alright on the inside, too. No one in my life has ever lingered on the possibility that there might be more to my story. On the outside, I am only 16. I am young to people who look at me. But on the inside, I could be 102, or maybe more, to people who look in me. I’m not actually independent, but insecure and scared of stepping out onto my own. I’m talkative to cover up the terror I feel inside of speaking in public or personally to people I’ve never met and am expected to talk with.

                Our issues are overlooked a lot by the people closest to us. They don’t want to believe that we could have problems, that, no matter how good and happy the person is, there is always the chance that they can lose us. They think that if they ignore it long enough, it will just go away. But what they don’t know is that for every second they turn their faces away from the obvious problems and hardship we are going through, we match it with more hurt and grief to ourselves. It’s all we can do to assure ourselves that we are alive and breathing, instead of dead, like we feel all the time.

                It’s like being stuck inside this personality you were never meant to develop, like you were forced into it and now you have to find your way back out. A lot of times I just lay here and think how unfair all of it is, how I’m too young to be going through this, especially when a year ago I was a completely normal person. But after building up walls and protection against outside forces, not all of them necessarily bad, I now have this shell of a body that I live in and hide behind.

                You know, bodies are strange things. They’re like my cell phone case. I didn’t have one for awhile, and I was always dropping my phone on the ground. After some time, it got lots of scratches and scars from making contact with the asphalt over and over again. So I decided to get a case, a pretty one, to cover up all the ugly dents and grooves underneath it. People would never know it was damaged. All they could see was the beautiful things on the outside, making the phone appear to be something that it definitely was not. Bodies are like that. They can be decorated and dressed up on the outside to appear to others as normal and beautiful and happy. But that shell could be covering up some ugly scars underneath so that no one would judge the way it’s handled by the owner.

                That’s what we’re most afraid of. Being judged. It causes anxiety, and depression, and we fear crowds and even small groups of people we once called close friends. We’re afraid that someone will take one look at us and somehow know our every secret. To anyone else, we’re fine. Normal. It’s pretty easy to even fool that professional psychiatrist that you’ve been seeing; they think you’re making progress and recovering. Not even they can see inside of us. They can only absorb the data from their observations and hypothesize on it. 

                After actually falling into depression, it’s a hard pit to climb out of. That’s not even metaphorical; depression really is a black, dark pit with little rays of sunshine that we can never catch. Nothing but disappointment every time we try, and we’re left in the cold again to wait for other opportunities to come to us. We tend to get started towards them a little late every time, though, and we’re not brave enough to go seek out the opportunities ourselves. Actually, we are brave enough. We’re just too frightened of failing the quest.

                It’s hard to explain the attachment someone like us gets to the scars we cause to ourselves. I can try, though. When you’re deep into this sickness, it’s like reality sort of takes a pause, and you’re stuck in time. You’re not sure if you’re dead, or alive, or dying. Making those scars on ourselves gives us something to look at when we are doubting our existence and confirm that we are indeed still here. Alive. Technically dead, but our hearts are still beating.

                When people tell me that there is a better life as soon as I walk under the rainbow to the other side, it ticks me off. Life isn’t a single step from one side of the rainbow to the other, ‘happier’ side. Life is a series of complete failures and heartbreaks and tragedies, and things don’t get better when you get to ‘your rainbow.’ You’ve got a whole freaking mountain to climb before you even get to the beginning of the rest of your life. Graduating high school does not mark better days to come. It. Is. Terrifying. It’s a reality that we are dumped into with nothing but a license, a diploma, and tough love to get us through college.

                I think that’s what I have trouble most with. Parents begin this decent in their love support as you grow older, thinking that it will make you more independent in life. Today’s culture has molded this brand new (idiotic) idea that you don’t need a parents love to get you through! And your parents pick up on it pretty quick, with enthusiasm, especially if you’re the youngest child in the family. They’ve raised their other kids, got them off to college and married. Now they’ve got you, the end of the rope. What’s the difference if we just let this one do what he/she wants? They’ll go on like the others; we’ve done our duty and this one should know the drill by now.

                Tell me I’m not the only one who sees the problem with that. Parents forget that the best children who grow up to be godly and loving are the ones who were loved with godly, loving parents! Hugging and talking and playing with each other shouldn’t stop when the kid turns 16. They are still children at that stage. In fact, that’s when we need the most love and direction because we have no idea where in the world we’re heading. We don’t get too old to talk to, parents. Believe it or not, we want to have conversations with you and your undivided attention (i.e. your stupid smartphone/tablet/whatever device you’re currently messing on while we are trying to talk to you.) We might seem like we’re spiting you with rebellion and lies, but what else do you expect us to do when nothing else will get your attention?

                On the inside, it’s not a fire. It’s not even remotely warm. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and it’s pain that never stops. It’s insanity that can never be made sane. It’s a storm that has no blue skies in sight. It’s sitting in my bed, tears falling down my face, gasping for breath in between the beats of a racing heart. It’s crying out for help when no one hears you. It’s complete hopelessness and agony and death. It’s me, on the inside.

                I’ve introduced you to my world. Now you know the emotion we live with. It’s not sadness or anger. It’s a feeling all its own. And the only way to relieve the pressure and mental pain is to cause pain somewhere else other than our fragile minds. The body is not so easily broken. So we cut ourselves open, burn our skin to scars, scratch open the scabs of our self injury, bite away the pains of our own souls. It’s the only way to keep our very essences alive, and pulsing. Because without the physical pain to fall back on to, we’ll shrivel up and wither away to nothing but a dusty skeleton that no one notices. It’s a life-line, a crutch.

                No matter how far away you’ve think we’ve gotten, no one is ever too far away to rescue. We may have run from the rules and our lives, but maybe it’s just because we want to see who loves us enough to come after us, to follow the trail and read the signs. We’re waiting to see who’ll walk behind us as far as it takes until we reach the end destination.

                Because that’s all we really want. For someone to understand. And even if they don’t fully get why we do what we do, it enough that they even tried, and didn’t give up. Love isn’t tested by the amount of flowers and gifts you give a person, but by the miles it travels and the fire it goes through to make it out across the finish line on the other end. Love never stops. It’s eternal. It’s beautiful. It’s the soul speaking to the heart, and the heart speaking to others, making a difference. A voice is all we want. So give us a chance to build up the courage to get one instead of shooting us down before we get there.