With his permission:
I'm not afraid to admit (when I can make it a learning-opportunity) that he's talking about me. We seems to have different versions of this, but immediately afterward I wrote this (finishing the next day) and more (I removed portions for length) because I knew that I'd lose most of it from memory:
I call it 3x^2
The beginning talks about events leading up to what had happened-- an ex ripping my emotions apart as if it were sport as always happens after "Hello" (if there is even a hello,) the guy I like having vanished for nearly two weeks at that time (I later found out he was hospitalized with complications,) stress of school and my loneliness, the fear of just facing tomorrow, and how I have lost my friends and cannot figure out what I had done to make them go-- one of the faithful ones I had spotted on a chat-site as she ignored me for some boy who had caught her attentions so fully and left me to feel so forgotten.
The next part may seem sudden, but I had lead into it after questioning my life and people's actions among other things.
Splicing in another part:
How many of you just stare at 3x^2 or a can of cream soda on an old wooden desk?
You can't focus but have a huge test tomorrow in class.
And although you don't really want to and know it won't work, the pills saved up in a old jar and milk bottle will at least get you somewhere different than here.
An antique milk bottle so full of interest. "GRCS-H," says it on the front. Well what does that mean? Who cares in the end.... It just holds pills. And your mind connects to that. Maybe those little circles on the Shasta can sitting before you remind you, or maybe because your head is only a foot and a half above them as you lay to 'rest' every night.
You fill it every day with the meds that really make you worse when everyone insists that they make you better... You pretend to take the meds that they make you take and won't believe you when you say, "They cause me problems." They who are meant to help you really only hurt when they think they know better than the one who knows himself more than any doctor or counselor or psychiatrist will ever know.
Dead conversation on screen.... Light grey checkered blanket loosely draped over your shoulders. "Studying" getting you no where. Music plays on....
Slowly you rise, the blanket slipping a little but just barely clinging to your body.
Slowly walk out the door-- not a shuffle but not a true walk either. Just slowly staring ahead at the floor, the red glow of a night-time heat-bulb for a lizard illuminating the room through the kitchen.
A growl arises from your dog as his gleaming eyes stare widely at you, fur slightly bristled. You stare back, walking so slowly, the dog backing up as the other follows suit.
It's not really you. You feel yourself in there, but what are you doing? You feel in control but know it's not you controlling you.
And the dogs confirm that it's not you... A stranger in your body. A plague in your thoughts. Something feared, something unknown, causing such an intuitive creature as a dog to fear the one they love and jump gleefully for every time he comes toward them.
But they retreat....
Your hand rests on the handle of the door as you face about.
You look at your other lizard, himself shedding under the glow of another hot bulb bringing the air of the tank to a temperature he desires.
You sit down on a very old mattress that jingles and creaks with every movement. Your hand slowly reaches under the wooden frame of the solid-pine bunk-bed.
It slips past a water-bottle hiding the pills, and slowly it draws out that which you seek.
And you stare at the blank back of the century-old glass, and look into the mix of tans, browns, whites, and reds half filling it.
You begin to pour them out, and a pungent odor pours out with it-- the scent that makes your face contort in disgust. You know this scent too well. And oh how you hate it.
You stare as your hand is filled with the pills you've taken before in a large number, along with new ones you haven't tried to OD on as you knew that they would fail just like the 30 40mg Citalopram pills from last time.
Suddenly, one escapes as it crashes to the hard faux-wood floor.
Just as suddenly as that, you are you again as you nearly drop them all to the floor and your grip loosens around the bottle.
And... And what? You've been here before way too often.
Why do you sit there like that so often? You know it'll neither fix anything nor make things better. You know it won't work, but will instead further damage you.
It won't make Tory see that she needs to do some serious thinking.
It won't make Todd come back.
It won't make your friends truly care-- Neither Nika nor Joe.
Major Depressive Disorder...
Just thank God that the "psychotic effects" part is ended.... But what has replaced it is equally out of control when your own pets that love you so dearly view you as a stranger entering the home.
When do I get better after these 4 years of living like this so often? I recall events that forewarned this even before Steve died-- the death that set this off.
Standing there with a knife to your wrists at age 13 is not healthy.
But neither is sitting there with a bottle of pills at age 18.
Nor will it be at 25.
Just like it wasn't healthy for the girl, age 11, to put a rope around her own neck and hang only a town away.
Nor is it healthy for a girl-- or boy-- to begin taking razors to himself at age 9 to try and escape the pain.
What will happen to our 6-year-olds next?
See an issue here?
As we advance our culture, we kill our future. Don't you see us as getting worse, not better?
The numbers of younger people harming themselves keeps growing, and it's growing with younger and younger ages.
And they're all just like me.
And anyone reading this is just like them. No one would read what I write unless they connect to it.