The title is self-explanatory. I spent nearly the entirety of dance thinking of how I would word this post. This grief for someone I knew but didn't know, to society's standards, still gnaws at my stomach. Unlike all my other blog posts, I won't be sharing this with everyone by notification. If you're reading this, you've seen it on my feed or were browsing my blog one day and came across this blog post you never knew existed. Right now I have something from AP government to work on that might very well take all my time in the first place, but I don't care (I had already asked for an extension and was declined, and having 'forgotten' to mention this event as my excuse, mentioning it afterwards would just seem desperate). For the first time this year, I'll get a bad grade on an assignment, and I won't care. The memory of a self-silenced person is worth more than the judicial branch any day.
Her name was Emilia, and all I can say is that she was my friend.
Her best friend Noah contacted me this morning from her phone, and the words that killed me the most were "she finally did it. She's dead", especially when put into context. At first, jokingly, I thought she had killed her bitch mother, but my dark mirth turned quickly to melancholy as someone other than Emilia answered the chat. Something one can always assume of a teenager is their possessiveness over their phone.
After a brief talk with Noah, the most prominent emotion I felt was survivor's guilt. Crafting a convincing argument for someone to forego the idea of killing themselves for a night is something I can do. The problem is that people don't want a convincing argument, someone who's overcome with emotion doesn't want reason. A person who's leaning closer to the razor blade or bottle of bleach on the counter doesn't want to hear the words, "oh it'll be alright", "you'll be fine", or anything along those lines, because according to them, none of that is true. A suicidal person will more often than not always see the negative, and will always feel alone. You can't just tell someone that their life will improve, because if it was that fucking easy, they wouldn't be depressed.
The problem with consoling a suicidal person on the internet is that in the end, you'll be words on a screen. You can put meaning behind those words, and most of the time, that meaning will be understood on the other side, but for someone who is at that point where they're ready to go, you can't be there for them. You're forced to watch as they do it and yours words fall on deaf ears, but at the very least you're doing something. When you find out it's been done without your knowledge, no chance to save your friend.
The worst part is how lonely she must've felt. As someone who goes to a high school full of enlightened, decent people, I have no shortage of friends. Everyone is friendly, unlike when one goes to a normal high school, a distinct apathy hovering over the heads of all those normal students. Not everyone is friendly to everyone. There one must truly find out who are real friends.
For those of you who've read my blog for a long while, there is an entity that exists that I dub the Rain god. His true name could be Rob McKenna, but I'll never know. What's important is that he's important, however much we hate him. Everyone hates the rain. It's natural, almost instinctive, but it's necessary.
That being said, I had a great week, up until today. Wednesday I had a small epiphany about how awesome I was, and thus began to live with increased confidence. Thursday I had an awesome day in regards to Wednesday's events, and on top of that, my theatre teacher simply gave me a role in the upcoming Midsummers play as Theseus. I found it extremely strange that Shakespeare would manipulate Greek mythology to the point where Hipollyta, the supposed bride of Heracles, ended up with Theseus after somehow coming back to life from when Hera caused her death. The internet says the two were cousins, but I still can't see this shit happening, could you? The first rehearsal is supposed to be after school today, but alas, Rob wants to capitalize on this.
See, it took two periods to realize I felt well and truly sick. When it comes to illness, I'm known in my family as never being one to feign it. I could have my hand chopped off and I'd still go to school, but only if it was my left hand. To hell with this, I'm still going to school!
My sister gets sick fairly easily, I've found. However, whenever my mom hears me say that I feel sick, it's normally because I've felt sick for a while and I'm only now admitting it. In a way, I'm really stubborn. I'll keep going, with my soul shattered, on my force of will alone. Now, unfortunately, it's my body that feels weak and feverish. It's gotten to the point where if I even mildly feel like I'm sick, I know I am. I'm not sick often, but when I am, you can bet your ass I'm sick. t's surprising, considering I hardly ever am, but that lends wonders to believabilily. I'm not lying about it, mind you, but if that boy hardly ever cries wolf, you can assume that there's a wolf nearby when he does.
Without my sickness, the day was fairly depressing regardless. My off period I couldn't bring myself to do anything short of calculus homework, in Dance we did some shitty bookwork (which is kinda like asking an engineer to write about his feelings) which I didn't bother to finish once I had done the minimum requirement. Finally, we read W;t in English (pretend the semicolon is an "i" and you've got it down. In writing this, I've also inadvertently realized the meaning of the title), which is about a woman with stage 4 ovarian cancer who toootaly doesn't die at all. In a way, kinda cuts close to home with a sick person who's sometimes a hypochondriac when it comes to the Death Triangle of the Face.
In hindsight, I wasn't sick. I wrote this Friday of last week, now I'm writing this today. In my defense, the symptoms really did make me think I was sick. My sinuses got fucked up to hell, I kinda skimped on breakfast, and I apparently got less sleep the night before. As a result, I got a pretty convincing sell. I'm never sick, so when I feel like it, I usually assume the possibility that I'm sick.
However, half a week later and I still feel perfectly able to write about the topic I envisioned on Friday. For creative writing, I have to collect inspiration for a certain topic to write about for our final grade for the six weeks. I originally was going to do my crossover fanfiction of Agents of Shield and Person Of Interest, but last minute (yesterday) I decided on something else: the rain god. My teacher told us to not draft before tomorrow, but this isn't a draft. This is my way of collecting information about my topic. I usually prefer to write fiction in my creative writing class, as my personal thoughts and emotions are reserved for here.
My week so far is pretty damn similar to last week, emotionally. All of a sudden, my life improved last week, and hasn't dropped in quality. Today, I feel as great as I did one week ago, with no particular reason. I no longer have crappy days, only crappy moments. The rain god, it seems, has shone me his favor. The rain god, for those who don't know him, is the god of really crappy things. Everyone can hate that, right? The good thing, however, is how much greater those crappy moments can make our normal moments. When everything goes horrible, if something goes neutrally, neither good nor bad, it seems like something amazing.
I can name a dozen good things that have happened. Getting a role in Midsummers, being able to write recreationally (not just for the sake of a blog post), staying on top of my homework, all of these are amazing things, but I can't attribute any of them to my newfound happiness and passion. I'm kinda suspicious of the last one, however. If it is the last one, it would explain something for the American school system.
There are some things, of course, that go somewhat less well than expected, but they don't dim the good stuff. The contrast of life allows one to easily see the good and the bad and focus on whichever matters (hopefully the good).
There are still some bad things, however, as there naturally would be. Why should I expect everything to go perfectly? My life hasn't become perfect, but it has become a lot better. My self-esteem may be up, but the bad things that keep happening remind me of what makes it do so. My social anxiety is insanely lessened, though prevalent. I feel like I am someone now, someone who has gained the right to say hello to whoever they desire, do whatever they desire without being judged openly. Among teenagers today, that 'right' is more of a privilege. My former crush still intimidates me, but I'm finding myself more apt to looking at her again, this time as a possible friend rather than potential romantic affiliation. I've still given up on the front of love for now. Maybe once I get over her, my heart will lock onto another girl and the same will commence, but maybe not. I've learned my history, it would be dire to repeat it.
As I wrap up, I notice the distinct lack of images in this post. There's one image, surely, but that's a requirement for every blog post so that when I post it, you don't see the shitty resolution of my profile picture when expanded to be huge. Fuck it, this is captivating. I may be a bit vain, and compensate in kind (positively, mind you), but even I can tell when I've written a great work. This has passion behind it, like so every other post in this blog. Every single one isn't based on rationality, but emotion. I incorporate rationality into it, but that's so I don't just give you a page or two of teenage angst and daddy issues.
And even though it may be fun to read/watch, since when is that a masterpiece?
Yes, Supernatural fandom. Shots fired. If anyone's even mildly offended, go watch Person Of Interest.
I remember at one point over the summer, my mother told me one of my relatives had asked her if I was still doing alright, given that I hadn't written a blog post since the end of school. Now, of course, school has long since begun, and the blog posts have once again begun with it. Hooray me for relaxing, but now real life has begun it's shit once more. I'll try and write fast as I only have a lunch period (during which I'm supposed to be writing an essay), but what are blog posts for?
Have you ever had that kind of day where absolutely nothing has gone wrong, yet you feel like something has? My Astronomy teacher referred to today as a "triple-Monday", which I fully agree with. I'm tired, exhausted, even though I was well rested on the weekend where my most pressing activity was mastering Halo 4 with my sister. I've found we can be quite the badass pair, not just in Halo, but in real life as well.
Still, today was mainly affected, I believe, by the book I'm reading. My mom's boyfriend got me into this book series as Summer began, a series about Roman legionaries who get accidentally sent to this land of magic and sorcery. Being Romans, they kick everyone's ass at general effectiveness and everything else. In the empire of Videssos, the emperor announces they will be required to leave the city for campaign in 8 days. With much grumbling from the other groups of mercenaries in service as the emperor's military, Marcus Scaurus' senior centurion, Gaius Phillipus, gives him a smug grin, "knowing they could well be prepared in half the time."
The only issue I have with the series is that Marcus doesn't slay the dragon on the front cover. Sure, it doesn't look like a dragon, but tell Harry Turtledove that.
Expecting just a story about badass Romans, I wasn't exactly going to be let down either way. What I got instead of just that was a masterpiece. Harry Turtledove's third book, The Legion Of Videssos, attempted to tear my heart out with the heroes' fall and, finding no way to do so, simply dragged me around while grasping my still beating heart. I feel like this is one of the first real books I've read in a long while. After spending my time reading Divergent, Percy Jackson, Hunger Games, and a couple other YA novels, I feel like this book series is so startlingly real. For me, at least, it's the kind of book that gives you chills when you read, that makes you sit up, stirring with excitement and desire to quote the current passage to anyone sitting near.
I realize, of course, that the Percy Jackson obviously makes some people feel that way. I simply read it to see how Riordan would construct his universe. The story was simply a bonus. I feel somewhat deafened to simpler books like YA novels meant for people my age. The only other books I felt this way with was the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy series, and through these masterpieces I realize my type of book as the type that's startlingly real. The story considers religion, bias, love, choices. It glosses over the fine details that YA novels typically characterize themselves with, instead focusing on how each event influences the bigger picture.
These kinds of novels also help me realize how real life is. In TLOV, Marcus ends up being betrayed by someone close to him, thus sending him into a depressive stage where he is alone in the Videssian court. It's something I empathize with, having your faith all in one person where it's cast away heartlessly with a simple betrayal. The emotions in the book end up drawing attention to those within me (although my mother would argue it's because of "the stupid computer"), allowing me to truly feel human in a world where so many people fail to understand the meaning. Don't ask me to explain. It's not meant to be explained.
As for the remaining events in my life, one thing I'm certainly proud of is my ability to have gotten 4 people to check out Person Of Interest on Netflix. One of my friends (yes, Hunter) ended up getting addicted to it, which is always a good sign. When it comes to Person Of Interest, I'll simply name it as the best damn show out there. Firefly, had it continued further, would've held said title (and lost it once POI came around). Person Of Interest, I'll just say, you should watch the first few episodes and then decide whether you like it. The show needs the Netflix traffic anyways.
One last thing for today as lunch begins to wrap up is that I've noticed a funny burst of confidence today. I don't mind being me, even for a moment. My former crush I still haven't managed to look in the eye due to the increasing awkwardness that rejection entails, but I'm willing to try it. If I can get over her and stop bothering myself with my failed attempt(s) at romance, I can get ahead with myself at last.
They say romance is dead, if only it were. Maybe then we could all get ahead with ourselves before we try it with any other.
The hardest thing about being a writer isn't the fact that you can't write. After all, there are times where you suddenly get an idea for your story, visualizing it to the point where it's definite in your head. The hardest thing about being a writer is getting the opportunity to write. You may have a sudden burst of motivation, but unfortunately you can't just whip out your journal in the middle of calculus. I mean, you can, but people will look at you funny. Sadly, we haven't developed a device to freeze time solely for one person, to the despair of middle school boys nationwide.
The only reason why I've found the time to write now is due to a theatre assignment. Yes, I'll be presenting this in class, and by the time I read this again, will be reading this sentence aloud. If you're new to this, I break the fourth wall somewhat frequently, so get used to it. It's now, you're looking at now, sir.
"When will then be now?" "Soon!"
With the requirement of presenting this in theatre, I'm also forced to keep this under one minute, which is going to be hard, if not impossible, considering how I usually write these, so naturally I won't even bother and my teacher will cut me off halfway through a sentence. A minute is only an eternity from my perspective, and I have to keep speaking and fill every second and it will all sound like nonsense to you. I'm getting from a couple faces in the crowd that this has already happened. Remember, this isn't supposed to be long from your perspective!
Writing, as you can tell, is a passion of mine. A friend of mine once texted me to imagine what it would be like if two characters from different TV shows met, and I took the next several minutes before responding with a small story of exactly what he described. I would've gotten done sooner, but phones tend to have shitty keyboards.
It's at this point I've momentarily lost the point of what I'm writing (the pressure of writing it in the lunch before class doesn't exactly help). As per my senior year, I've been taking creative writing, and having started on an actual fanfiction over the summer, wanted to use the class to actually finish a full-blown story for once. Naturally it wouldn't be as simple as that as my teacher for that class decided to make us tell stories for the first half to get comfortable with opening up to the class. We told funny stories, ranging from weddings to drug deals to sketchy people, and in that period of time, I had an epiphany about myself in the fact that I have no stories.
Sure, I have things I've done that I can easily talk about, but the way everyone else told these stories made me realized that they were alive at those points in their lives. They were happy or sad or dying of laughter, but I realized most of my life I've never been any of these, but merely content. I can't talk about any enjoyable experiences I've had because I've never really had any. I've never been in a sketchy place, I've never walked in on a drug deal, I've never lived.
By this point my theatre teacher will have silenced me to allow time for the next person and I've probably stopped reading. If I'm still reading this out loud, I've apparently done something right. I have no idea what, but I'm sticking to that.
It occurred to me then that I need to embarrass myself, that I need to get myself out there and actually live. I realize now that people are gonna use that against me to make me do things I don't want to, but fuck it, I'm saying it, no matter how much I'm gonna regret this later, which I probably am. This idea of living my life to the fullest is probably going to kill me, but that's the idea. Life is meant to be lived, and I need to live it.
Also, if I by some miracle am allowed to read this far, it definitely won't be a secret, if it ever was one, that I didn't even begin the script assignment for this class, but what are the odds of that happening?
