Weight

A week ago, I had the most perfect, loving boyfriend in the world. I could do the splits and hit a high A. I ran a mile nearly every day. I lost 4 pounds. I had promising auditions, and wonderful recommendation letters. I was confident. I was in control.

This week, I got dumped. I tore a muscle. I can't stretch, and I stopped running. My voice cracked, and I have to learn 5 new pieces for auditions in different languages. I stumble over every obstacle, overwhelmed by what feels endless. Walking down the halls in school, I feel heavy, plodding, slouching. I brace myself outside the classroom. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes, and try to smile. I cannot. My face feels heavy, pulling down on the corners of my mouth, and smiling is an effort I can't seem to come up with. I push through the incredible weight of the rest of the day.

Home again, I retire to my bedroom, and curl up in the rocking chair in the corner. My fingers trace the fading pick hearts painted on the armrests and follow the winding designs to the words on the sides. It was a present from my sisters. In their colorful handwriting, it says happy birthday, and goes on to remind me that even when the worlds turned against me, to sit and remember, that I'll always have them.

Rocking back and forth, I feel comforted. And I smile, nearly weightless.

Hope

I feel as though I've been teetering on the edge of a cliff, brewing with dark energy, and someone has pushed me, and not a single person is willing to break the fall.

It's difficult, I know, to console a friend after someone has left them. It's impossible to know what to say. They tell me we weren't right, that they never liked him anyway, that I'll find someone else. And then they stop talking altogether, as if they've choked on their awkward stuttering. His picture rests face-down on my shelf. His friends delight in my heartbreak, "liking" the Facebook break-up, sending cruel messages that warn me never to talk to him again, and even mutual friends, taking it upon themselves to let me know that they "won't be there for me."

I feel as though I'm endlessly falling. Please, dear readers, when a friend needs you, no matter how painful it may be, reach out to them. Do not, please, do not leave them alone, do not ignore them. We, all of us, seek comfort from others, in human contact, in hearing words of comfort, in knowing we are loved.

With puffy eyes and shattered soul, I Google the words running through my head, waiting to be faintly amused by the gargled nonsense the web chooses to spit back at me. Mindless clicking eventually sends me to Wikipedia's page on the definition of boyfriend. I scroll around, not really reading, and one of the pictures catches my eye.

Two men lie on a couch, and the caption is simple. A man with his boyfriend. The article mentions nothing about gay or straight relationships. It is simple, and gender neutral. For some reason, I find hope in this. I find hope in a future for love and acceptance. There is hope for love, all love.

And my heart's hurting fades, just a little bit.

Secret Worlds

"Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe." — Neil Gaiman

Think.

Infinite

As he drones on and on about rational functions, I fight sleep. He circles a hole on his graph. A hole. In the line. I'm confused, thinking that maybe, I'm just more exhausted then I think. Math is black and white, yes or no. There is always an exact answer. No gaping holes.

I copy the equation into my calculator, and trace the line. The blinker disappears, there are no values. There is a hole, infinitely small. Inexplicably, I feel guilty, like I'm the one who has torn a hole in the graph. Not just the graph, it feels as if I've gone ahead to rip a hole in the universe, in everything I thought I knew.

It feels strange, and terrifying, to realize that everything in life, everything you could know, has infinitely smaller details to learn. You couldn't find enough time in your life to read every book in the small library in my town. Every choice you make can turn you in an incredibly different direction. Every person you get to know could change you. There are infinite decisions, things to learn, paths to take. Life is big. Life is daunting. Life is infinite. And I feel as lost as the small tear in the graph at (2,2).

Dear Anonymous

"I love you, but this is kind of upsetting. Everyday I go into a dark place, thinking of everything that's gone wrong in my life. Everyday I struggle with depression so much that I don't really want to even live anymore. I'm jealous of those who have perfect lives. Think about that for awhile." -Anonymous comment on Writing

Dear Anonymous,

Forgive me, please, for calling you out like this.
I could tell you nobody lives a perfect life, but of course, you know that. I could just tell you it'll all be alright, but you don't want to hear that, no matter how true it may be. I could tell you that you must find help, but I figure you know that too.

I would prefer to talk to you face to face. It's a comforting thing to hear the voice of someone who loves you. But alas, I can only call you Anonymous. My life isn't perfect. Neither is yours. Nobody has made perfect choices. Perfect choices do not exist in life. All of life, all the joy and excitement and learning comes from the mistakes. And often, mistakes hurt. But please, trust me on this one thing.
There is always another way. Always. Depression feels like there's no other option, that the pain outweighs everything else. But please, don't limit yourself to that pain. Find happiness in the fact that there is always a reason to smile. Always. No matter how small a reason it may be. There is hope in this world, my friend, and you are loved.

www.givesmehope.com

Please, call me?

Writing

I began to write a lot more once I realized there were no rules. There are no guidelines, no suggested topics, no requirements. Once there was no demand for a great novel, the blank page in front of me invited mindless scratchings, short stories, endless possibilities.

I'm not always happy being happy. I'm not satisfied with nothing to complain about. Without drama. Without conflict. Without something to write about.

But then I realized something important. One can write about anything.