Whatever

But imagine how chillingly devastating it would be to come across a little girl with no visible injuries other than a few scrapes on her knees. Her hair is a bit messed up and her clothes are dirty. You can see the tears still spilling from her bloodshot eyes but there isn't any indication that she died a violent death... But right as you were about to ask her how she died, you can see the black and blue bruises in the shape of fingerprints on her arms that get darker and more defined as they go down and wrap around her wrists.

I read this book called “ The Magnum Opus: Seek and you shall find” by  Christopher and  Christine Kezelos and I fell in love. It’s kind of a children’s book; like something you would read in middle school... But I have searched for years and there is no fandom for this book at all. I want a group of people to obsess over this book with me but no one else seems to have read it.

And when they do, I always find a reason for it to be my fault.

Living for myself and only myself would defeat my purpose to live. I would simply be surviving and for what? Myself? In order for me to take care of myself, I would need to be doing it for someone else. If I lived alone I would simply wither away.

Also... My youngest sister has autism. And this story is 100 % true.

I’ve never told her about this dream but she was able to describe details about the church almost exactly how I had dreamt it. She also mentioned our dad being there... My dad was in my dream as well.

I listened as my dad read some of them out loud to m me. We both started crying as of we knew them. My dad then told me that we should go. That we shouldn't stay there otherwise we'll lose our minds.

  I couldn’t breathe and my whole body was trembling. My eyes met his and the confusion that flooded his face made me burst into tears. I didn’t even bother to pull my shirt down. I just sat there sobbing and shaking. We both sat there in silence and fear. I was afraid that if I looked at him, I would freak out again. He was afraid that if he did anything so much as move, I would freak out again so we both just sat there.

I sat up and saw my brother tugging on my mom’s shirt as she nursed my sister. She looked so distant. I felt a tear run down my cheek as I came to terms with the fact that it was only a dream. That my mother was gone and my mom was all that was left of her.

But sometimes things feel so real when they aren’t true or they feel so fake when they are true that I have trouble distinguishing the two… But I don't. I just think I do. I have a pretty good grasp on reality, I can just feel it slipping all the time and I fear that I may lose hold one day. I haven’t yet, that I know of.

What people don’t realize is that depression, along with any other mental illness/disorder does not need a reason. Just like any other sickness, it just happens sometimes. Any hurt, sadness, anxiety, is valid no matter what you have been through. Just because someone else has it worse than you do does not mean you can’t be hurt too.

I used to get mad at people who wasted their food. “Don’t you know other people would kill to eat the rest of that?” But now I find myself wasting food all the time. I just can’t bring myself to finish anything. Once I look down and realize that I only have one bite left, that bite turns into the heaviest weight I could shove down my throat. I cry sometimes when I throw that last piece away because I know that younger me would have been looking at that single bite of food like it was the biggest chocolate pie she had ever seen. But now food makes me feel sick.

I think that most kids like to think that they are in a TV show or a movie or that they are being watched. My siblings and I always joke around that our life is a TV show or a book. We do things like “breaking the fourth wall” or pose for the cover of the newest season/book. We gather certain “scenes” in our lives and explain to each other how the “book” would portray it. It is just something that we all like to joke about and have fun playing around with. One of my favorite questions to ask people “Is your story worth telling?” To my surprise, not many people think so. This is disappointing and even a little sad because not many people think that their life is exciting enough or meaningful enough to be heard. People spend so much time trying to speed through life that they don’t make the most of it. This results in what they consider “a boring life”. My story, I would say, is worth telling. I think that my story is exciting enough that people would want to hear it. I love telling my story too. I feel listened to and understood like I am explaining why I am who I am.  Though it is a story filled with love and heartbreak, it doesn't have much to do with boys and high school drama. My story is different.

I have this subconscious need to preserve things or bring back what once was. It isn't that I feel I cannot move on from the past but that it cannot be forgotten. Like I cannot lose those moments, those memories, or I will lose a part of who I am. The memories that live in the back of my mind built who I am today. If I somehow lose grip of them, I will have nothing to hold on to, nothing to tell me who I am. My past is not exactly pleasant but I still find myself longing for the way things were when I was young. I mourn memories as if they were people I've lost. I get depressed over the fact that things are not the same as they once were. The thought of never being able to experience that moment for the first time again. I think that we remember things differently than how they were because we want to believe that there was a time when life wasn't so shitty. When in reality, life will always be the same. I also think that life seemed better then because we were younger. We didn’t think about the things we do now. We didn’t have so much to worry about. Every time I pass by my middle school I feel sad because I miss it; everything about it. But I don’t really miss it. In reality, I know that middle school was the worst time of my life. I had a horrible home life, I had horrible friends, and yet… I still find myself wanting it all back. I keep wanting to contact people from my past. People that I know were toxic or people that have no interest in me whatsoever. When I do, I am always disappointed because I feel that somehow, they will fill that longing for the past, but they never do. Sometimes I will watch old cartoons that I haven’t seen in years. Or I will try to make a meal that I ate when I was little. I do this just to feel the nostalgia. I think that doing this will bring back old memories that I forgot about. Or moments that are too valuable to be forgotten.