I Wonder.

I wonder if anyone's ever sat down. Just sat down and thought about the world around us like I have. Probably not. People don't seem to understand the thoughts that go through my head on a daily basis. They're conflicting and I can see why no one would even attempt to understand. One minute I'd be thinking about how horrible I feel for those children starving in third world countries, the next minute the dark part of my brain takes over and feeds me images of how it would feel to have their life in my hands. To strangle it off slowly. To be the one with a whole plate of food in front of me, and restrict it from the child, watch them starve, just to let humanity feel my wrath. And then I spend the next hour chastising myself and trying to understand what's wrong with me before the process starts all over again. I feel as if I'm spiraling into some dark abyss and I won't be able to climb my way out this time, considering no one seems apt to give me the ladder and help me up, no one cares enough to hold out their hand and pull me back up. They just watch from the ridge as I fall, in secret, hiding my every thought with a smile. Covering how many times a day I'd love to just rip off all my skin, remove my hair and my eyes and just start all over again. No one seems to realize the pain I carry in my eyes. I'm too young to feel this lonely and forgotten and bitter, and yet, I do.
    On the controversial side of that argument, no one understands how much I care. How fitting I actually am to care for humanity, even when the dark side of my brain takes over. So many people seem to think that I'm just blatantly removed from my feelings, and they just don't realize that's only a front I put up. I'm such a good actress that sometimes I manage to convince myself I don't care. When in all actuality I struggle through my everyday life with a broken heart, one that I'm afraid just won't be fixed. Ever. I have this sense of loneliness that's so heavy that when I'm alone in my room at night, it crushes me. And that's when I allow myself to cry. If you've ever seen me cry, consider yourself lucky. I only cry in front of people when I'm so broken I can't take it anymore, when the bottle I keep my feelings in overflows. By myself I cry every day. But I can't let you see that, I can't let anyone see that. That's weakness. And I cannot allow myself to show weakness. That's when someone can come in and truly break me. And no one's done that yet. But I have this foreboding sense of fear that someday someone will. And my worst fear will be realized, I'll be broken beyond repair and stranded in a desolate wasteland of useless things. I'm already useless anyways, I have no talents. I don't really have any friends if you think about it. You're kidding yourself if you think Zackey's really my friend. If you think I'm really on his list of priorities. Dylan, Hunter, and Ashley come first, and so does Lauren, and Nicole, and the list just continues. So many people come before me it's not even effective to tell me I'm on the list. Maybe I am, but I'm not up there high enough to matter. I'm not on anyone's list.
     I wonder if anyone has ever sat down and thought about me. Wondered what I think when I see them, wondered if I ever think about them. Because I do that every day, for every person I see throughout the monotonous hell hole I am forced to call life. They don't, of course, I'm just another face that blends into a crowd. Average. Forgotten. Lost. Replaced. Gone. Ugly. Fat. Horrible. Talentless. Unloved. Forever Alone. Lonely. Average. Forgotten. Lost. Replaced. Gone. Ugly. Horrible. Talentless. Unloved. Forever Alone. Lonely. The process just repeats itself all throughout my head when I'm awake, when I can't escape to my dreams where anything is possible and I look the way I wish I could. When I look into a mirror and don't see twelve thousand flaws. When in actuality, when I look in a mirror I see nothing but hatred as the tears slide down my face. If I could take a knife, and cut off my stomach, and cut off my face, and just watch myself bleed, I would. If I weren't such a goddamn coward, I would. If I weren't so hopelessly optimistic that something better will come along, I'd retreat into my kitchen, pick up the butcher knife, and end it right now. But I don't, because no matter how much I try to push myself down, suppress the thoughts, there's always some twisted hope that bubbles up in the midst of the hatred and screams <i>"You'll be okay. It'll get better."</i> <b>"No."<b> My brain screams, <b>"No it won't."</b> but the hope survives the constant lashing, and still screams in my times of horrid depression. Those times at night when I go to bed. That's why I'm afraid of the night, by the way. I'm afraid of the insecurities and memories it screams and throws at me. I'm afraid of the way it breaks me with its never ending darkness swallowing me up and drowning me slowly. I'm afraid that I'll survive the darkness and wake up in the morning. I'm afraid that I'll have to pick up the broken pieces of myself and carry them through yet another monotonous day.
    I wonder if anyone's ever sat down and thought about the world like I do. Thought about all the hate and the suffering, and just wishing you could give them your life in return. Because I would. I'd give myself up for a random stranger. I'd let death sink its claws into me just to save the life of someone I don't know. Because I don't value myself, and I don't see why I'm alive. I have no purpose, no point. I'm as useless as a book without pages. Worthless. I wonder if anyone has ever cried sometimes, just thinking of the lives other people have to lead. I wonder if anyone's ever worried about having a house, or food like I have. Maybe not the food, because I've always had food. But the house. I had my house yanked out from underneath me when I was 8. I had my best friend taken away and my life torn away. All because of a bad business deal. I've had to worry about having enough money. Because no matter how hard my parents tried to hide it from me, I was far too intelligent. I always have been. I saw how we were living from paycheck to paycheck. I heard the relentless screaming downstairs as my parents fought about my father's drinking habits and money spending, and how we'd have money to pay rent after we lost the house. I felt the tears sliding down my face when I realized I'd have to give away my dog, and my room, and my farm where I raised sheep. People say sheep are ignorant animals, but trust me, when you've bottle fed one since birth and watched it grow, when you trained it to follow you around and sit with its head on your shoulder as you read to it, like I did, you'd see just how smart they are. I had to let go of my comfort for 8 years. Living just a few steps from my grandparents, living in a small one-road town where I knew everyone and my mom actually let me step outside at night. Where I live now isn't dangerous, trust me, it's just my mom's thought process. I gave up everything except my possessions. And even then I had to sell some of it because we didn't have room. And I moved into a little apartment for two years before I moved to wear I am now. I'm not going to complain about the apartment, it wasn't that bad, there were horses out beside me, and Zackey lives there now. The apartment itself wasn't what bugged me. It was the fact that I had to be there. That I was there instead of being home. And then I drove past my home one day, only to discover it occupied. The flowerbed ripped up by a chain link fence. The barn where I kept my sheep torn down, the dog pen ripped apart. My swing was gone and a pool consumed my old sheep lot. I talked to the kid that lived there, he went to the same school as me. My room, my old pink room with a gorgeous mural of a garden and horses that my mom took so much time to paint me, was painted over purple and they used it as a feeding room for their five dogs, who probably ripped up the rest of my house. The silence that overtook me when the kid told me that was deafening. I felt violated, and sometimes I still do whenever I drive past my house. Yeah, I still call it my house. In my opinion, I have two homes. The one where I live now, and the one that made me who I am today, the one that I grew up in. I know this probably seems pointless to you. Why do I care so much about a house? I just do. I care about the memories, and I care about the fact that I did not get to see my best friend live out his life because I had to give him away. He's dead now. He'd be older than 18 now.
   Again, as per usual, sorry this is jumping and goes from topic to topic, but that's my brain.
Don't worry yourself, if anyone's actually reading this. I'll never commit suicide. No matter how much I tell you I want to, I still have that stupid relentless hope inside me. And I have something that makes me happy for a fraction of a second now. One Direction. I smile when I see their faces or hear their music. They're there for me when everyone else is pushing me down. Even though they don't even know I'm alive, they're always there.
xx~Emily

Come on Get Higher - Matt Nathanson