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It takes a lot to stand when people want to see you fall. They tease, push, and try to break you. You end up running home to something not much better: maybe you're abused, neglected, parents fighting, you name it. The afraid-- too afraid to die, and too afraid to live. The ones afraid might momentarily lose their conscience, do the things they used to scoff at and say, "That will never happen to me." They would cry themselves until all they see is blurred, grab the nearest sharp object (whether it be a razor, knife, letter opener, or anything really) and slowly run it down their arm. Despite the fact they may or may not have done it before, they know one rule: Don't cut too deep. Or even if they aren't cutting, they find ways to hurt themselves. Maybe they willingly beat themselves up or stick their flat iron to their skin. The afraid ones somehow find a way to do it without fear. I used to be like them. I have never been so ashamed of myself to hate myself and feel guilty by day but do it all again at night.
Then there are the real cowards. The name-calling and shoving and all the other forms of bullying stab them deeply in the heart. Their self esteem lowers and they feel the only way to please anyone is to die. It's the biggest lie anyone could tell themselves, but they believe it anyway. If they have a blade, they won't stop when blood shows, they'll just keep going until it spills across the floor. They'll reach a window in their second-floor bedroom and open it up, eyeing the distance between the glass and the grass before leaning back and falling. I had a friend who almost made it that far, leaning out her window, but backing away when the voice in their head came back to say, "What are you doing? You need to live!"
And lastly, there are the brave. They are the ones I aspire to be, the ones who won't let anyone bring them down. Everyone could hate their guts, but they keep on living-- they don't hurt themselves or get close to suicide. They tough it out until things get better. Actually, they don't wait until things get better. They make their life get better. Somehow I'm able to be stuck between the brave and the afraid. I'll get out of bed filled with the hope things will be better, that I will no longer consider my razor an option like I used to. Does that make me brave, being able to say that I don't hurt myself when things get bad? Does that make me afraid because I used to?
Either way it's time for me to move on, to make my family proud of me instead of worried I could fall dead at any moment. I want to make people be happy to call me their best friend, their sister, whatever title applies. I want to be someone people look up to instead of pity or frown upon. I want to be the Brave, but I'll be damned if I die as a fake.
 "They have greatly oppressed me from my youth, but they have not gained the victory over me."
Psalm 129:2 2ndAndSebring · Fri Jul 06, 2012 @ 05:51am · 0 Comments |
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