artificial love

because guess what. sometimes it doesn’t get Better. All the way better.

but guess what. it also does get Better. it gets better. kind of.

this post is dedicated to the boy who said that i am “proof it doesn’t get better.”

what i should have told him: fuck you. what i told him: gosh thanks sweetie, fuck you

what i should have said: you don’t know me. you don’t know where i have been, or where i am now, or where i want to be. what i said: don’t pretend to understand what you can’t know. how my mind is a labyrinth and i was locked in the center, in a small quiet room, the eye of the storm if you will.

what i should have said: true recovery is never linear, never a straight upwards slope. you are not a mathematical equation. you are human. you are nature. you breathe into your lungs what fuels forest fires. you are not a number that can be put into a grid, you are not a statistic, you are not a point on a line chart, you are a person. what i said: i broke open the door at the center of this labyrinth full of Doors. behind this door was a feather bed with memory foam pillows. it was almost comfortable. it was heavy. yeah, seriously, it was almost really comfortable, when i didnt mind the whole swallowed-by-my-bed thing, or the whole brain-encased-in-cement-like-pillow-that-grows-harder-and-harder-and-harder-to escape-the-longer thing. i looked like a beetle on its back. a beetle thinking about trying to get up, arms treading air hopelessly. i hope you laugh at that image. because yeah. it felt peaceful, and comfortable, and hilarious that i’d even think to struggle my way out of this silence. but i did. i did i did i did i did

BETTER WILL LOOK DIFFERENT ON EVERYONE.

for some, yeah. better will be a life totally free of mental illness. amazing. it could be you. it might not be. but it could be. the teenage brain is a complicated thing, and sometimes mental illnesses, like depression and anxiety, are the products of chemicals that over or under produce. the developing brain is capable of balancing itself out. scientifically speaking, there is a reasonably high chance that a teenager with depression or anxiety will recover in early to mid adulthood.

IT WILL GET BETTER.

for some, better will look a shit ton like worse. mental illness will stick around, it will be something you live with for a long time. this is more likely true if you develop a disorder in your later teens or early twenties (but no one can use this as an indicator). having said that, apparently even people with personality disorders have a chance of emergence after about ten years. sometimes a sticky mental illness will only arrive in bouts. it will not be constant. your life will know better seasons.

IT WILL STILL GET BETTER.

and a lot worse, but it will always always always always get better. if you have experienced joy, you will experience joy again. there’s no reason you won’t. if it was possible before. it happened. it was real, and so were you.

what i should have said: the better you become at lifting weights, the lighter they do not become. you run track, boy. you keep pushing to run further, faster. and this pain, your heaving lungs and shaking legs, you take it with you. it tells you if it was worth it… they always get you there. what i said: with every door i break down, comes another breed of monster. the further i get from the center, i think the labyrinth is more and more afraid of losing me to peace, to joy, to myself. it is a selfish thing, these walls, they love me more dearly than you ever will love anyone. the further i go, the tighter it grips into my shoulders, the more the void begs me to stay, the sharper the teeth of the wolves behind every door. when i kill a monster, i yank out its teeth, cracking blood over my hands, and i use the teeth like knives. i break down another door, and the new wolf smells blood. sometimes i can barely hear the murmur of the ocean, or see the slip of the mountains, but the glimpse through a threadlike crack in the wall is enough. i’m coming, i whisper to them. my strikes of light. im coming im coming im coming

sometimes better looks likes worse. sometimes better is learning exactly what is eating at you, what triggers you, what the root problem is, and confronting them with guns in your hands. it hurts. it’s a huge struggle. but in a way, this can be “better.” staring it in the face and fighting will always be better. talking about it will always be better. always. fighting always looks uglier. 

sometimes better looks ugly. like seeing the ugly. like letting others see your ugly. letting friends, family, strangers, or doctors or therapists see your ugly. sometimes better looks like being loved despite all your ugly. 

sometimes better looks like crouching on the floor, crying and begging god to heal you. at least you’re finally asking someone other than yourself.

BETTER LOOKS LIKE AT LEAST IM TRYING A LITTLE BIT.

what i should have said: TODAY FEELS LIKE SHIT. TELL ME IT DOES. GRIEVE WITH ME. I GOT UP THIS MORNING AND I WASHED MY HAIR. I EVEN PUT ON LOTION. IT SMELLED LIKE LAVENDER. I SMELL LIKE LAVENDER. I SMELL LIKE GROWING THINGS. I MADE MYSELF A CUP OF TEA AND WENT BACK TO BED. I DRANK TEA. IN BED. I EVEN GOT OUT MY NOTEBOOK. I DIDNT WRITE IN IT, BUT I THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT I’D WRITE. I GOT TO WORK. I GET TO WORK EVERY DAY. IT’S ALL THE INTERACTION I HAVE ENERGY FOR RIGHT NOW, BUT I DID IT. I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT I SLEPT FOR A WHOLE FIVE HOURS ISNT THAT GREAT? I KEPT BREATHING EVEN THOUGH IT FELT LIKE THEY WERE FILLED WITH CEMENT. ISNT THAT GREAT? ISNT THAT GREAT? IM ALIVE ISNT THAT GREAT? IM STILL HERE. WONT YOU CELEBRATE THAT WITH ME. WONT YOU TELL ME GOOD JOB. I SURVIVED. I PUT ON MY CHAPSTICK. MY LIPS AREN’T BLEEDING TODAY. I DID IT. I DID IT. I DID IT. what i said: ye u right 

sometimes better looks like understanding yourself, and knowing how to cope. sometimes better is not being able to get out of bed, but still being there to lie there. sometimes better is learning to avoid your triggers. sometimes better looks pathetic and ugly to the world around you, but it is contentedness in where you are, and giving yourself the grace to gently grow better.

sometimes better is only patience and grace and forgiveness and quiet mornings where you know you can start the clock over again.

sometimes better looks like ugly catharsis embraced. sometimes better looks like screaming. sometimes better looks like coping.

BETTER LOOKS LIKE SCARS.

this is not to say you need to hurt yourself, this is to say whatever hurt you have experienced, it is yours and you have felt it and it will heal in some way, somehow. even if it is visible. even if it is ugly. the ugly is beautiful, they tell stories of your resilience, stories of grace. you do not need physical scars to have a story. you only need the breath in your lungs.

IT GETS BETTER.

you figure out how to live. you learn how to cope. you let people surround you, one person, or five. you let your hands be held. you let them hold your shoulders up, when you can’t. you embrace them when they can’t imagine it. you exist for each other.

you don’t do It.

IT GETS BETTER.

you cannot see this future ahead of you. the future is an open highway at five in the morning, with the sun coming up. the earth is round, you can see the horizon. you never know. you never FUCKING know. yeah, dude. there might be a car crash waiting for you. or a beach. or a beautiful sunset. or a hitchhiker who changes your life. four years ago i was a junior in high school, and i had endless panic attacks over the future. i had absolutely no plan whatsoever, and i am still terrified. but i have a plan now. and it’s a good one. one i never ever saw coming. but it’s an open window in april. maybe it feels like sunshine, or a rainy baptism, or a brewing storm prickling my skin with electricity. sometimes the future almost kills me. i don;t know if i’ll go out the window, or if i’ll stay inside. i feel every emotion every day, and i am terrified, and i am hurt and bruised, but sometimes i’m glad i’m here to be terrified. i still want to die, every day, but every day that i stay, i prove to myself that i can. and the earth sometimes opens up the clouds while she rains, and there are rainbows across the sky. when i can’t find the rainbows, when im crying or panicking or lonely or suicidal: i rub my eyes, and there, i see a glimpse of the color. so maybe this is what god meant by promises. i don’t know. 

BETTER BELONGS TO YOU. DO NOT LET A SHITHEAD DICTATE WHAT IT SAYS.