therapy

» writers

"You know how people are told that a writer writes from emotion, experience, and brutal reality that hits them in their spines, cracking every speck of strength they thought they had?"

"Mhm, though, I must do say so myself that you too can be called a writer right after those words left your mouth." She gave a quick smile and tugged on my sleeve, pulling me towards the school's theater, as a play was about to unfold in front of our eyes.

"What about you? Where do you get all of these metaphors? Where do you find them? Underneath your pillow at night? Or do they just peek out from your brain, like...stray hairs, maybe?"

She didn't answer and focused on the red curtains—trying to burn the questions into the fabric as hard as she could with her eyes. "Where do I get these emotions from? Experience? Harsh reality? No one would expect it of me, after all, I'm just some teenager with a roof over my head—but that's enough, right? That's supposed to prevent me from feeling any sadness and anger. I'm writing about agonizing depression, perspectives of oblivion, and the strong chokehold of gravity, death. Yet the world doesn't know that it's me who's writing it. They think of it as some research I have done just to 'strengthen' my writing skills." She let out a shaky unpleasant chuckle, hinting at a tone of boiling anger.

"We have constant presentations of suicide prevention and how to stop bullying—but does that really block the thoughts out? Do they really think that a student who is getting good grades has any trouble besides worrying about school? Do they really think that it's me who is writing about self-harm? From experience? Do they? No, they don't. And so words are my only group of best friends; you too as well, of course. But they are just the only ones that allow me to express myself. The one thing that pains me the most is some people have their own labeled version of me; they only see me as the straight A's student with great writing skills. They don't see me as the girl who's sitting on her bathroom floor past midnight with her head in her hands. My face and my words don't match up."