The thing is, I like reading. No, scratch that, I love reading. Books take you far away from the depths of reality and push you into the unknown. My life is a mess all the time. I pretend to be okay but let’s be honest- who’s actually truthful about their feelings anyway? Good books create a hunger, a thirst for more knowledge and more words that will take you where you need to be. Take me for example, I always feel lost and seldom feel found. But books, see the great thing about books, is that they make you feel needed, they make you feel wanted when one ought to be wanted. Books need readers, they need lost souls that look to them for answers. They need that longing that an individual feels, to feel loved themselves. And as it were, this becomes a cycle of want and need that both books and readers, welcome, with open arms. I realized this today as I put down a book I finished. A book that really moved me and enticed me to start jotting my own thoughts. Once in a while you are lucky enough to come across a book that not only takes away the boredom of countless hours, but also changes your viewpoint on life. That’s what this book did. When a book does that to you, when it changes your life, the book has done its job valiantly.
My day has not been so good. My week, even worse. As I look at this year coming to a close all I can think about are the ups and downs that I went through to get to today. I think about the beginning of the year, where I wanted to kill myself so badly. I think about the 7th story window of my bedroom, and how easy it would have been to jump out. I think about the reasons that made me not do it, my parents, and a boy that talked me out of it. How he will never know that he single-handedly saved my life and how I, countless times threw him to the friendzone, refusing to be with him because I didn’t feel the spark. I think about how it was his love that saved me, his love that only longed to see me happy, and how much it hurt him to see me sad. I think about the heartache I suffered through in the beginning of the year, silently sobbing about the past and what I had done to deserve such pain. The same broken heart, that refused to let me love another. The one that is still being mended, still being put back together. I think about how much I wanted him and how much he didn’t want me. I think about all the friends that became so dear to me. From every part of the world. The friends that I know want to see me badly. The ones I fit in with, the ones I could be myself around. I think about them when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m mad or when I need someone. I think about how glad I am that I didn’t take my life in the beginning of the year, because I got to meet them and for this, I cherish my saviour’s love forever. I think about my summer, being diagnosed with cancer and how it changed me. I look at things so much more differently now. I see life through a new eye. I see myself not judging every single person I meet, how I am kinder and nicer around strangers. Now I know that no one is capable of being in anothers’ shoes and how we all must treat each other with dignity, respect and most of all; patience. Patience to wait when someone is late, patience to understand that something cannot be unsaid and patience to know that sometimes letting go is the best thing to do.
Then I wonder about how I got to learn who my real friends are. How I feel that I don’t really fit in with anyone. How I really want to run away but I don’t have the money to do it. I think about how all my parents want is for me to succeed in life and how I can’t seem to make peace with my mother. How I’m so sorry that I seem to blame her for everything in my life although nothing is her fault. The thing with life is, it’s so sad that sometimes I honestly forget about the happy moments. How I met someone who seems to be changing my life. How I get along with my roommate, and how I was able to come back to school. Sometimes I forget about the happy moments. I think about how I am growing up and maturing. But then the bad stuff kicks in again. The more I think, the worse it gets. I get eerie feelings sometimes. You know, those awful, terrible feelings in the bottom of your stomach? Like when I think about the fact that I will get married some day and have kids. Will they end up like me? Will they be as broken, and as miserable as their mother is? Will I be able to help them? The thing is, I don’t blame my parents for how I turned out. They tried their best, they really did. And they continue to try their best after countless fights, mean words and expensive bills. They do not hate me, but I know they feel sad about me. And I just can’t help but notice this. And I just can’t help but wonder whether or not my children will feel this way about me. Whether they will see the sadness in my eyes and whether they will be broken inside without their mother knowing.
Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong. Where I might have fallen so hard that I felt it was useless to get back up. I wonder about my family, and then I wonder about my parents again. Where do they think that they went wrong? I wonder a lot. I know my parents feel they have failed. I barely get by in school and even that is a feat. I am not athletic and I am not conventionally beautiful. I am not someone that makes you look twice, or so I have been told. I am now thinking of all these insecurities that I have and I am wondering again. Now I am wondering whether or not you feel them too. And now I know that you do. Everyone has insecurities, or so I have been told. Everyone hurts, everyone cries; that’s why it doesn’t matter if I feel pain. It doesn’t matter if I hurt because everyone does. And if everyone does then it’s not a special feeling, is it? One that comes once in a while when your dog dies or your grades aren’t what you hoped for? It is a feeling that is felt every day and therefore, it must not be anything special at all. Nothing that I would worry for—Not for me, or you.