!!!TW!!!
Brief mention of suicide, unkind thoughts
IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING, CALL THE SAMARITANS ON 116 123 <3 <3 <3
Myself
Not giving too much away, I live at my school. A bursary school kid. I prefer it this way; I don't have to come into contact with my parents, so they can't see the bruises. Or the scars. Or the discontent. I lied when I said I was new to the school. But it's easier to pretend you're new. It helps the pain settle and briefly disappear from the surface. I am not new, I have been here for a while, but because nobody notices me it's easier to accept I just arrived. I tend to sugar-coat my existence a lot.
The truth is that I don't think anybody sees me. They know of me, they are aware I'm there, but when it comes to actually existing I'm simply not there. It reminds me of a chapter in this typey letter book thingy I'm doing.
Being ignored:
Now the main thing that greatly annoys me as a person is when people ignore you. Like you're speaking and they interrupt, or they stay silent when you have spoken and then a few seconds later burst out laughing. I just want to let all those people out there who enjoy cutting people off that you don't even deserve to read this and should therefore give it to a nice person to read. If you're still reading this book those rude people then understand that what I am about to say next is very important and...
Exactly, point proven, it's not cool. Not being able to know what was about to be said. Imagine this: you have something important to say, you begin the sentence and somebody cuts you off. You may be thinking that that's fine. Do you want to know what the other person feels? Worthless because what they were about to say is not regarded as important and therefore the person categorises themselves as worthless.
To continue this train of thought I would like to mention the laughing element of speech. If a person talks about something serious without a sarcastic tone, then more often than not it was never meant to be funny. If you giggle at what they just said you will make the person feel awful, like what they just said was stupid. They themselves will then feel stupid and go silent for the rest of the conversation as not to make the same error again. Then they might go silent for the rest of their life. However, there was never an error in the first place and that the listeners were just being total dicks.
As you may have noticed I have kept this non-gender specific because I don't want people knowing who wrote it. I don't want people viewing me different than how I already am. I don't want them coming up to me and saying things like 'are you okay?' or 'do you feel happy' because I will get sick of it the empty sympathy. Of course I'm not fucking happy, what do you want, a fucking medal? A podium? A banner which reads 'HUMAN BEING OF THE YEAR'? In conclusion, my identity will remain a secret and the name on the cover will be probably made up. So, in theory anyone could have written it, and so you will view the world in a different light as you will always be thinking 'did they write the letters?' and will be more concerned about their welfare. I'm just trying to make the world a better place. But there will always be those people out there that just want to spread fire.
People confuse me. They keep their emotions locked away and throw away the key. However, I can see right through their charades and see what they really feel. I love doing this because I can always help a person if I know something is definitely wrong. Unfortunately, I think I am one of the last of my kind as nobody really cares about other people anymore. The fake 'how are you?' is another sentence for 'I like you, so by social reform I must ask you this question so you can continue to like me further and thus extend our relationship'. Ask it and mean it, listen to their answer, and please, don't tell anyone else unless they tell you it's fine to do so. And don't ignore them either.
As you can see, one of my reasons for wanting to leave is due to the fact that my voice is not heard. That's exactly what happened every time I need a shoulder to cry on. I cry onto my own shoulder.
As soon as I placed that letter underneath his desk I envisioned what would happen. He would read it. He would laugh at it. He would say that what I have isn't real and I'm just a silly little whining person who needs to just move on and be thankful for what I have. But I think I have the right in saying it's not what you don't have that makes you sad, it's the ability to no longer see this.
I hope he doesn't find out who I am because I really do want to leave. I change out of my uniform into some mufti clothes, and sit downstairs and wait for my friends to come down so that we can leave for dinner. They walk past, through the door, and continue through me. I walk behind them, always behind them, always in front of them, but never beside. I am simply not worth their time. I try joining in the conversation a few times, but all these efforts are done in vain. They laugh and talk over me, whilst my whispers are taken away by the breeze. I smile to myself, knowing that in seven days I can finally follow it.
Around me, there are crows cackling in my direction, I know it. I think that crows have the ability to sense pain, and then laugh at it. I wonder if they teach this ridicule to their chicks as soon as they've hatched from their eggs, like humans' do. Again, my mind is arrested by a daydream, but this time not of the present or the future, but of the past.
When I was around nine years old, we had an Easter hat parade and the best ones got prizes. There were categories, such as the tallest hat or the most elegantly designed, and I won the prize for being the most innovative. I won't bore you with the details, but what I can tell you was that my hat was pretty spectacular – I spent hours on that hat. Anyways, I won an Easter egg wrapped in golden foil, like a trophy. I was proud of myself. Happy. God, it feels weird to use that word.
Following the parade, we went to a disco. My school had hired a really cool band to play – they were western – and I can still remember the lead violinist wearing flares and a leather cowboy hat. And to a nine-year-old, what was the shit. Some of us who played instruments were asked to go and get them to play with the band, and I was so excited. I grabbed my egg and ran to the music department, yanking my violin from my cubby hole and unzipping it as fast as I possibly could.
Then this boy walks up. His name was Alex, and he'd asked me out a few weeks earlier. He too played the violin, and started opening his case which happened to be in the slot next to mine on the shelf. He looked at me, and smiled. I can remember my face blushing, and I knew then and there I knew the answer to his question. I was going to say yes.
In an attempt to be romantic – as romantic as possible for a nine-year-old – I offered him some of my chocolate egg to eat. What he said next will never be forgotten by myself; he simply said, 'you owe my half of that egg.' I split it in two, the brown pattern breaking seamlessly down the middle. As the egg cracked in half, my nine-year-old heart did the same. I gave it to him, tears in my eyes, and he, along with his violin, ran back to the disco. That was the first time in my life I truly felt a sadness I had never felt before, that was when I got my first real taste of a mental disorder buried deep inside of me. I was a week too late, and my lateness invited the crocodile for tea.
'Hello?!' I see a hand waving over my face.
'How long was I out?' It was a stupid question, I was sat eating a meal, and all I remember last was walking by and hearing a crow caw.
'A while.'
'Thanks for waking me up. I was wondering...' But it was too late. They'd already began talking about something else. I slump into the back of my chair, picking at a piece of broccoli. Somebody yells my name, and my spirits are lifted so high that they literally crash through the roof and make me jump. I swivel on my chair, and say, 'yes.'
'I was wondering?...' This was it, I knew they hadn't cut me off, they were listening in. This was my moment, my chance to let my voice be heard in a wave of sound. I open my mouth, ready to continue my line of thinking.
'...If you were going to eat that?' I follow their gaze to my plate, then my desert plate which still has my pie on it. I know I want the pie. I really want the pie. But at moments like these, the universe makes sure that everybody is hearing and watching, eager to see what will happen. I do what I do every time I am put on the spot. I give in. Follow the script.
'No, would you like it?'
'Yeah.' They grab the plate at lighting speed and all at once forks from all directions stab at my pie. Over the top of the animalistic clutter, I just about hear a 'thanks', and this is all the invitation I need. As silent as a dodo, I pick up my tray, and glide out of the room. Suddenly I stop, and look over my right shoulder. He's there. The guy. He is stuffing pie into his face. Feeling like my nine-year-old self, I pass the food and accept the pain. He didn't notice me. Why would he? I'm not really there am I. Once again, I place my head forward and place one step in front of the other, and wonder if the crows are still outside.