The fog was thick as I came down here. My arms sting but I’ve sort of been enjoying the pain. It’s something to feel other than this dark, twisted hole that has replaced my innards. “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay came on my iPod while I was driving. Actually, every song that could’ve fit the mood I’m in came on my iPod right when I needed it. It’s like it was tuned in to what I was feeling. But I’ve never listened to those lyrics with ears veiled in depression and despair. Those lyrics, even if I wasn’t looking through gloomy glasses, fit my life to a T. “For some reason I can’t explain; I know Saint Peter won’t call my name; Never an honest word; But that was when I ruled the world.” I know you aren’t supposed to take song lyrics literally but the way this works is perfect. I used to feel invincible and untouchable by everything and anything. I wasn’t me. It wasn’t honest. I wasn’t being true to myself or who I was. Plus, every word out of my mouth (to anyone, let it be my parents, my teachers, anybody) was literally a lie. It was a faucet I couldn’t turn off. “For reasons I can’t explain; I know Saint Peter won’t call my name.” I think that’s kind of the reason I’m not dead yet. I feel like that’s the reason I haven’t actually carried out any plans (well, except for that one time. But it didn’t work, so does it count?). I don’t think I’m going to heaven. I’m not receiving any sort of retribution for what I’ve done on Earth. It has to catch up to me eventually, right? People don’t get free passes. Everyone knows that. Cultures throughout history have, like, never given free passes to people. Hindus and Buddhists are reincarnated until they reach the ultimate understanding of the universe. Jews have been treated like dirt basically by everybody for, well, forever. Christians had to kill the son of God before they could get off without a punishment and even then, they still have to live by His law and do decent things. Extreme Muslims believe in jihads and stuff so they go and blow themselves up to reach the blessed afterlife! I don’t know where that leaves me. I want to be here for Thomas. I want to be here to help anyone that is going through the same shit I am because I know what it feels like. I want to get a psychology degree because that’s the only way I know how to do the aforementioned. I don’t want to disappoint my parents anymore. I don’t want to feel like a failure. I want to love myself: body, mind, and spirit. I want to be proud of my “accomplishments.” I want to feel like a relatively normal young adult instead of a freak. I want to take responsibility for anyone and everyone I hurt throughout my life. I told Craig on Thursday that children weren’t really people because they hadn’t experienced anything in life. They hadn’t had their hearts broken or been denied anything (except maybe Second Breakfast). They hadn’t known true pain. But I was wrong. I think children are the most real people out of anyone on this planet. That’s the point. When they know pain for the first time, even if it’s something that seems trivial to us (adults, that is), that is the most powerful force in the world. When they know joy, even if it’s something that seems trivial (you guessed it, to us, adults, that is), that is the happiest, brightest, most vibrant shade of joy that can ever exist in one space. Our life sort of goes down hill from that. (But don’t be upset, no! Just keep reading!) And I think people with depression are more in-tune to that than other people. Not to say that others don’t feel anything, but when you’ve known your entire life (like I have) that you felt things more strongly than other people, that you were different from your family because you could literally feel emotions coming off of people like vibrations from a cell phone, it sort of becomes a problem. Because you spend the rest of your life living to find that first-discovered joy again. You want to experience that first heartbreak, that first sadness, that first moment of pure rage…because at that moment, it meant you were feeling something. Now? My world is covered in bloody cuts, covered by long sleeves, covered by a sweatshirt, even though it’s uncomfortably warm in here. Part of me wants to linger in this space. This little 2×2 section of the galaxy because I know this place. I’ve paced this little cell, I’ve touched every pore and crevice of these walls. But I’ve grown too big for this cave. I need to come into the light. I need to see, once again, what children see, just through a different lens. Children know pure emotion but the part of growing up is being able to hold onto that experience, being able to learn and grow from that and become someone from it. Instead, I chose to linger on it and crush it like someone who was too excited about having a new flower. But you know what the nice thing about flowers is? Once the seed has been planted, they tend to regrow.