The Truth

She knows what it's like and how it hurts to live. To all of you who wonder about me; my family, friends, etc, I guess reading her memoir will only bring you one step closer to my broken mind. I have overcome any shame. This is me, this is how I speak, and I refuse to be what you want me to be. I am depressed beyond my control. I have an illness that has taken over the past 9 years of my otherwise ethereal existence. I am terrified, and shaken to mysterious shades of childhood gray with every initial breath I take, daily. I am fatherless, and do not tell me otherwise until you have lived a second in my duct taped high tops. I am not dramatic, I am real, and my fear is redundant in abundance, tenfold. I necessitate embracing uncertainty, however these demons have ignited a blazing fire, which traps me within the peach stained hallway of Sunny Brae heaven, a blistering red upon my toes, sparkling fuchsia, that refuses any proposal to quit.
Don’t tell me anything. You simply do not know. I am not like everyone else. I am not special. I do not need any guidance. I need to be let go of, to be surrounded by people; friends who think of me, a mother who trusts me, and a father who can articulate three little, yet infamous, words fast enough. I am not her, my beautiful aunt. I do not need Lithium, though Morphine, my arm, and that crystal I.V. became fast friends years ago on that splendid Christmas Eve when I was 18. I follow the scent of peace and realize that it lives vividly, yet only in my memories. If one more person tells me to move on and live for the future, I will have to tell them to fuck off. People swear that I feed off this negative energy that plagues me, summer in and autumn out. Why would anyone find pleasure as a fear-abiding citizen in this country of opportunity?
“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don't want any more vicissitudes, I don't want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.”— Elizabeth Wurtzel. I am 25; still wondering where all the time went. I am embarking upon this final thought to a restless sleep in an intangible dream state, circa 1991. I am clinically depressed, and if that obvious statement via facebook changes your thoughts of me, I no longer apologize. I am frightened, alone and absolutely controlled by a higher power. The reason for my sadness is not, I REPEAT NOT MY FATHER, NOR MY MOTHER, and NOT MY LACK OF A SOLID FRIENDSHIP. It is life and its difficulties including the aforementioned that breaks my heart and severs any ties I may have to a normal, self-sufficient future.
I am going to find, or perhaps not find, peace someday, but I refuse to hide any longer. I will meet whom I want, and for instance if it were a nice Jewish boy and I had the undying need to speak of my life, then I would…and if it were to ruin things, then I will remain no stranger to failure.
I am beautiful and potent beyond appraise. I will not sustain a life with the loud, echoing beats of my untamed heart, forever. Let it be known, regardless.