Back in 2007, my english class was doing it's poetry unit. I was in one of my deepest places of life; my Mariana's Trench, so everything I turned in was melancholy, naturally. To this day, I don't know what possessed me to turn a journal entry, titled 'Burn'. It was sick. It was graphic. And it explained all to vividly exactly where I was at the time. The journal entry went so far as to illustrate the burning feeling one gets from blood leaving their system.
One could say it was a desperate cry for help, unbeknownst to myself. Answering the cry, I was pulled out of class by the very gracious teacher, saying "Do you need help?" to which I nodded, biting my lip - chagrinned that I was in the hallway at that moment, with the rest of the class staring through the small window. Interesting to note, I had NO friends in that class, and I never spoke.
The next class period was spent entirely in the guidance counselor office. I did have a lot of friends in that particular class, and when may name was called over the PA system all of those friends stared at me curiously, and some guiltily. The placid woman who worked in that segment of the high school didn't know what to think. Refusing to say 'she didn't understand', I just don't imagine she could believe how rational I was being. The very expression on her face was intrigued that I didn't look like a devout follower of Marilyn Manson or something. Law deemed it necessary to call my mom.
I got home from school that day, feeling a small sense of relief that I would talk to someone. The relief was drained completely when both of my parents sat down with me, crying. Hurting them broke my heart. Everything was hard for a few weeks. A deafening silence resounded whenever I entered the room. My saddened family would always look up at me, not sure whether to say anything or not. Chewing my food with a thousand eyes on me made everything that I ate taste like sponges.
Flash forward a week, My mom and I started counseling with a wonderful woman, who was eventually able to persuade me some very important facts of life. For the first month, my mom cried almost every session. Two and Three, we had things figured out. Four and Five, my mom and I were laughing. Being at home was normal again. There was caution every now and then, but I wasn't a fragile egg anymore. Month six, I had made a 150˚ angle, and due to obligations to the senior play, I was no longer able to go to the sessions.
Specifically I said 150˚ and not a 180, because I was not there yet. Never was I as bad as I was before, but there were still times I crawled back into my dark hole and felt exactly as I had felt before. I actually did great for months, upon months. Around the year mark though, I was in the same place - only more bitter. I had been seasoned with a lot of bad pepper, and instead of being naive and trusting, and self-injuring...I was cynical and cutting. The difference was that I knew a few more things and I wasn't blaming everyone else for my problems.
The psychiatrist recommended I read this study book about having confidence in God. My mom immediately ordered it for me off Amazon. I didn't start it until the year later. I only got three days out of the 10-week study done. I tried again in 2010 and went for one day. I just think back to my sweet, wonderful and amazing mother and how eager she was for me to be happy, and knowing I didn't commit myself hurts me.
That very book, I just restarted it, and I intend to finish it. I couldn't need it at a better time than now. If I were feeling like this a few years ago, I would be in a very dark place. Reading it though, I am reminded of my time at the counseling center, talking about how I really liked our poetry unit for the fellows like Stephen Crane and Ambrose Bierce. Especially Bierce. To which my counselor enthusiastically shares with me a poem that she knew I would love by him. She said it had my cynical tastes, and the grotesque imagery I was fond of. The next week she brought me a printout.
This poem described my perfect nightmare. My biggest fear. The reader was alone, walking through a barren land, dimly lit sky, and sage brushing the horizon. One giant, rotting tree stood, dead ahead of him, a perching place for crows. Beside it was this growing creature. A wretched beast, black and dripping with a thick burgundy. It was agonized. My memory is very foggy, but the reader saw the abomination as himself if he progressed to where he was going.
I ate that poem up.
Now I see, that she was sharing with me a great analogy for how I felt.
It's how I feel right now.
My biggest fear is wasteland setting (watch any apocalypse movie, and those atmospheres fit), where I am either alone, or I'm in a very small group of people where I don't recognize them. Either way, most or all the people I know or love are not with me. My biggest fear isn't being alone, it's being left alone.
At this current moment of my life, I am walking through that flat desert with scrub grass, and I see myself turning into a bitter, oozing creature. My fear is realized, to where I am being left alone, to turn into that monster.
Would I have remembered that poem if I hadn't picked that book back up again? Would I have picked the book up again if I wasn't feeling this way?
Everything gets irritating right about here...I spent two hours reading Ambrose Bierce poetry, trying to track this poem down. I didn't remember the name, and I could not AT ALL find it. I wish I could find it, at least then I would know that I didn't make up the whole thing.
