Questioning what it means to fly

There are always the consequences for those who fly out of their cages.

If there was one thing that birds have, its wings. Duh. Wings that come in all shapes, colors, textures: all differences but all have the common reason of…. Flying. UGH. There I go again, being super cheesy using dope pickup lines-that seem effective- like those you see in depressing young adult-teens- novels. Welp. 

At least I DID its purpose: to give you the fucking feels. 

The feels that wrap around you like a homemade quilted blanket. And-still- give you the intentions of trying TO be depressed, when you surely aren’t. But, isn’t that the whole shitty purpose of feel-good novels: to make YOU feel sad and happy at the SAME time. 

But.

Nope.

Not this time: I’ll show you the purpose.

I, the master of all things in knowledge about suicide and love both, have exceeded in terms of all terms of feelings.

People often think that people with mental illness are possessed and need the pity of others to live. For example, if you saw a person about to jump off a cliff you would (out of concern/pity) call the police. But not only calling the police clearly shows your “pity” for the person, but it shows to the whole world as we speak, how “kind” quote quote you are. Isn’t that what others want to view you as? Kind. That is yet another word that has been either burned or set afire one to many times. To be kind is not to be caring but to be caring is not to be kind. 

After lunch that day, I clashed into 5th period with my thoughts swirling about overuse of “words”.

It’s kind of funny how I was able to think this way while doing class work. 

At the end of the day it was the end.

I stared blankly at the yellow torn pages of my library book and reread the paragraphs in reverse. This book was different though. Not only counting it’s worn pages compared to the bright white ones of the others but because it was a stand alone copy. Once the book was over I was over. In reading, in rereading in everything really, dramatically speaking. People say that books can often be a sign of who you really are. Like if you read fantasy novels you are imaginative, If you read realistic fiction you are realistic etc. I guess that’s partly true.

My life is often a series of events with no clearness in the events. You often don’t remember what happened but you remembered what became what happened. But of course I stole that line from an author.

That night, I silenced my thoughts by filling them with the thoughts of authors from my favorite books. 

The next day. Biology class.

The dude or whatever weird annoying boys are called in this life, enters the class. The word “dude” can derive from many meanings. Either to mean a bystander or a friend. Commensalism was what we learned in bio that day. Ms. Whoever the hell she was, silenced the class with one wave of her hand and continued on topics on parasitism and types of useless information that was easy on the relationships between bees and flowers. As if that information would be useful in my future. 

As miss was pointing at the projector and pointing at students with unanswered questions, the dude stared. Stared at the projector. Stared at miss. Stared at being stared at. 

There are many words inevitable to describe me but to describe the un-described seems weird right? It’s like a nerd describing how bees appear in structure and flying techniques. Obviously no one wants to- in terms of being useful or useless- really wants to know about the structure of a bee. That would be either not so interesting or useless. Useless is to be like a bee after all.

He stared. And stared. And stared at the un-stared. But what does it mean to stare really? Staring as the gods know it, is just a normal human instinct to be doing to those we either a) find interesting or b) just weirdly stare at. Another word that has been overused in the 20th century. 

But what is there to stare at anyway? At miss? 

Teachers often wear teacher clothes. Is what I like to think of it as. Most (not all) teachers wear long black slacks or mom jeans folded where you can only see their ankles. They wear shirts from local targets or Walmarts and (the more fashion concerned ones) wear church blouses in shades of bright colored pinks and corals. So why was he staring at a regular teacher wearing teacher clothes.

That was until I realized he was staring at my leg.

I normally don’t call someone a pervert unless they are sexually initiative but that was just WRONG. First of all, heck we didn’t even know each other and he was staring at my LEG. 

“Breathe. Breathe. Breathe” I muttered under my breath. Drops of sweat pouring down my legs. I instantly regret wearing a skirt today. SCREECH! “God dammit” I muttered once again and gave a dirty “Stop looking at the sweat dripping on my skirt” look at the dude. He gave a “ I wasn’t looking at your skirt I was looking at you” look and flashed a coy smile. UGH why life.

Anyway thank God I wasn’t seen as well interesting in that sort of bad way.

“Ok. Remember your unit 10 test on plant parts tomorrow at the begging of class!” The class groaned. Except me of course.

When I was a kid I wasn’t your typical dense as a soggy pancake kind of girl. I was your teacher’s pet and mature girl who though -craved the attention of peers like everyone else- I was not a soggy pancake. I was a fluffy, moist and sweet pancake drizzled with deep brown syrup and eaten by the thousands. I was your goody two shoes girl in good shoes. I was your typical sugar cavity stuck in your braces kind of girl. Jamming to Katy Perry and Taylor swift kind of girl. A lover of all shades of bright and a foul friend except to teachers of course. Teachers drooled at the sight of my grades after all. Girls cut in line but I don’t care until she cut. Of course I cried. I was just that sensitive. The sweet peach in the middle of the rotten ones. The peach in the crowd.

Of course that was a fucking issue once I passed elementary school. Passed past the regular B and C standards. The standards to me appeared to be straight A’s and sweet smiles. I was a pollinator to all the flowers. The flowers of course were pollinators as well......

And, because of my sugar-bitch persona I reinvented for myself, I had a difficulty in obtaining the one thing that mattered most to the freshman-newbie-in-high-school: Boys.

Boys, boys, boys.

I remember it all: the sound of my heart ripping in half when I finally-almost, actually- obtained the boy of my dreams. Only then, to be a half-assed reject.

Recalling to that time that I met him at the school library, begging him to meet me up there during his lunch-break, I remember every last detail that our conversation took us:

Me: *creeps up slowly towards him

He: *notices me and laughs suddenly

Me: “Hey. How are you today?” 

He: “Hey, I’m good! How about you?”

After that simply “How about you?” I’d catch a cold and freeze over. I’d overreact to the simplest details and think-over and over again- that the words that he uttered to me, meant that he liked me, he understood me. The what boy, I’d call him…. That.

That, no matter what OTHER, OH, OTHER! Boy I’d come across; they never had the same powerful effect of desire that those how-about-you scenarios we’d come across. 

Both imaginary and real.

Those cousins, parents, therapists, higher spiritual beings-like God- could never, OH ever, fill that deep, vast hole within the depths of my heart. The heart that-longs just like everyone else does- beats a thousand miles per hour when I sense YOU here. The what boy? What’s so special about him? 

The way you make me FEEL, as I’m dedicating this very story to you, my infatuations to YOU, my heart, my imagination, my inspiration.

******

10 years will pass, and I’ll never stop thinking about the way your eyes crinkle when your dimples lift; and I’d die just thinking about you.

People will say that fate is tearing us apart, and I’d never-and will never- be anything to you, and our infatuated one-sided love will always tear me apart. I hate myself just thinking about you, how much I yearned for those silly-messed up, and yes, very awkward- conversations we’d have. Knowing that whether those conversations lasted long, and if you ever felt like I was more than a stranger to you, makes my heart ache. 

Yet, does that STOP me from making up crazy infatuations about you?

No. It doesn’t. It never will.

As I lay in bed-still crying about you- I start to wonder: was it the fact that I loved you, or was it just the thought of it?

I’m crazy and delusional. 

I know. Know that, for a certain fact, my life is driven by the what boy.

YOU.

Now, as the year is coming to an end, I can’t make the ends of my broken heart-that never was broken by you- meet with anything, or anyone else.

******

And, I guess the fact that I had been the true narcissist, the true crazy-person-in-the-end was utterly heart-breaking. The very FACT that I loved you, made up some fanatical name for you, and increased my depression by about fifty percent makes me feel SAD.

Fucking sad.

The kind of sad that makes you want to scream for hours till end; until your head hurts and your heart aches. the kind of sad in which all you feel, do and live is directed for-and only for-that sadness. You're the kind of love that wasn't meant to be, you are the one thing that's been keeping my feet running. You HAVE-and always have- been my only source....

Of true?

Happiness?

What was happiness to me?

The kind of happy that makes your eyes lit up. The kind of happy that gets you off your feet and makes you dance in joy in which you smile WAY-too-much, more than how Phineas and Ferb dance in the song "YMCA".

But, here's the thing. I've never have felt this way about you if it weren't for my cousin. She was the one who introduced us, anyway. So, when it all comes down, it all comes down.

Down,

Down,

Down,

The world that has neither no regret no regret from you. A monotone cycle of never ending endings. Birth then life then death, then back again. The world that wanted you balanced but never helped you sit on TOP. Breathe. Breathe. Car. House. Sirens. Hand. Car. House. Sirens. Hand. Car. House. Sirens. Hand. Cars whom avoided crashing until they crashed. Houses whom were designed for the mere pleasure of living in them. Sirens whom shall ring until you stop them. Hands whom only touch when necessary. 

You hate us don’t you?

You hate the one that made you alive don’t you?

I’ll always be a part of you.

You are me and I’m you.

Go to another world. No one needs you in this one.

Too many people have referred to the "us" the depression and I as the "we". But, in turn, I believe it's the WHAT.

******

It's day six of week eight of year sixteen of: being alive. Alive as I-the one and only, I beyond all I's- rip out pieces of my heart for another.

"Thank you for saving me." I wanted them to say. I yearned for their every reaction to my sadness.

Sadness because of him.

I guess the aspects of unrequited love: 1) you don't know who to trust, 2) you begin to question your self-worth and 3) you don't know....How to go on.

"You sure you are going to be okay there?" Mom asks me, in concern. It was my first time back in school since a week ago. An entire week of medications-one after the other- stuck down my throat. A week of pure resentment, but-for once- peace.

" I'll be ok."

And, for once, I actually meant it.

*******

Spring semester of sophomore year, age fifteen.

I'm starting to really enjoy this:

Life.

As I stroll down the halls today, I no longer feel the stares. No longer feel the heated hatred.

No-more.

Ever-MORE.

" Hey! How are you today! You feeling better?" Alexia asks and I respond with the nod of the head.

It's funny how consequences go. One minute, you feel like you owe the world your world. But, the next minute, you have no regrets. Regrets that used to spew out of your chest, like your heart-whose gone soft- starts to beat you like the drum you are. You start to feel as though someone is protecting you. For a minute. But, then, that someone goes away. I'm trying to not be a kryptonite to my family. I'm always the one that pains them. It pains them-like a bomb that is set- that, any moment they could loose me. Not literally loose me; as to see me past. But, to loose that sweet, bubbly, fun little girl that danced to every Dora the explorer song on television. To loose this little girl meant disaster to them.

The little girl who had dreams. Passions.

Hopes.

Hopes that would always be so much more than what people believes she'd achieve. Always the girl that exceeded in expectations in both behavior and grades. They were afraid, that any-time-from-now, I could be gone. Now you see me, now you don't.

A rebellious girl they didn't want me to be.

But, ever since I met the what boy, I've been a broken, wandering soul. A soul that would roam 'round the block passing the neighborhood park and just run for three hours straight; not because I was hyperactive, but because I wanted to get my emotions straight.

"I'm sorry" I wanted to tell them.

But, the thing about a broken heart is that: you aren't sorry.

******

That, along with the fact that I never would've expected:

The bright-eyed-girl staring back at me.

It's been two years and six months since:

I've looked back.

" I think I'm ready." I say to him, and smile to myself.

And, like a bird, I still question what it means to fly.

Out of your comfort zone. Out of your rebellion. Out of your cage.

Out.