Wednesday, January 21, 2009

And It Breaks Her Heart

The Dreaming Trees

These shattered dreams and broken beams
Of sunlight shining bright
Imagination stifled, in honor of all that is “right”
Creativity no longer flows
From these fingers that not long ago were free.
Fires burn up the last resort to keeping our sanity.
Creators of this black and white-
no gray, no in between-
Marvel at disaster struck within this,
a once faultless city.
Paintbrushes filled with vibrant color,
Lying beaten and battered;
Each one is hopeless, lifeless here, amongst the floorboards.
Blank canvases filled with originality
Exist in this mind no more.
Vivid scenes of life haven’t a chance of evolving.
The priceless sculptures yet to be,
Uniformly gather into lines, awaiting being thought up,
Tossed out, forgotten.
Imagine broken dreams and shattered beams;
Sunlight ceased to shine.
What has life become, now that the dreaming trees have died?

Monday, January 5, 2009

Troubled Thoughts- Part Four

11:07 A.M. January 24, 2009

“Same Start, New Story”

So Dr. Gwen is late, seven minutes and twenty seven seconds to be exact. I’m not upset by any means. It just means more time for me to write my life story in you, little journal. I still think that you’re just a stupid book and you won’t help anything. However, writing in you is kind of addicting. It keeps my mind off of life. In a way, it’s kind of therapeutic, the constant rhythm of my pencil scratching against your rough, recycled paper. I still don’t believe writing my story is going to fix things. I don’t feel any different. I really don’t. Little journal, do you think I’ve changed? I’ll take your silence as a no. Exactly, Dr. Gwen, your silly little black and white journal project hasn’t worked at all. That’s why you should be here, asking me questions like, “What do you think will help?” and “When you’re feeling better, what do you want to do?” Not that I miss the annoying questions or anything. I just miss irritating you by my refusal to give you a straight answer.
Okay, so it’s twenty nine minutes and forty seven seconds past 11:00. Dr. Gwen is nowhere to be found. Worried? Who’s worried, little journal? I’m not worried. I told you, I just want to freak her out; concern her. You know, I need to make her feel bad for being so late. Doesn’t she know that I could be going crazy in here? Whatever, I don’t need her anyways. I’ll just read for a while… I know, I’ll read Looking for Alaska. That always cheers me up. Wait, I heard a noise. Was that her?! It was just the television, little journal, no need to freak out. She’s only forty two minutes late. Maybe she got stuck in traffic. I know she works here, little journal. I’m trying to calm myself down. She’ll be here. I know it. I’ll just keep reading until she gets here.
-Anxious Autumn

It is now 2:09 P.M. Dr. Gwen. I’m sick of waiting. I’m calling you right this instant! Oh, I think she’s picking up!
“Hello, Dr. Gwen Thomas…”
“Finally, Dr. Gwen where have you-”
“…is unavailable right now, please leave your name and number and she will get back to you soon.”
“Dr. Gwen, it’s me, Autumn. I don’t know where you are but you’re obviously not coming. I really think we need to talk today. Well, not really. I was just kind of hoping to get a laugh out of you asking me stupid questions. Usually you call when you can’t make it. I was a little worried. You can call me back later, I guess. Bye.”
Okay, so something is seriously up. I don’t know where she is at all. Its 2:13 P.M. little journal, I think you might be working. I think I lied to you little journal. I do care that Dr. Gwen isn’t here. I always look forward to seeing her overly made up face and hearing her smooth voice asking me questions about my life. She’s always been the only person to care about me and now she’s gone! What am I going to do? Oh Dr. Gwen, if only you could see how ridiculous I am. This little journal has made me see, I need you. I need somebody, anybody. You were right Dr. Gwen, I do want to be fixed. Maybe, I was in denial. You can help me, can’t you? Please Dr. Gwen, I want to have a normal life.
I’m sorry that I’m crying on you little journal, I warned you of tears. I just wish Dr. Gwen were here to see that I’ve made a break through.
“Autumn, stop your crying,” a familiar smooth, calm voice said.
“Dr. Gwen! I have so much to tell you! Your journal is working! It is! I know I’m going to get better!”
“I know you will too. It will take work but now, I can see that you are willing,” she said as a smile broke across her face. “I couldn’t help you if you wouldn’t accept it.”
“You know Dr. Gwen, this little journal and I have a lot to tell you.”
-the soon to be brand new, Autumn Ray

Troubled Thoughts- Part Tres

2:54 P.M. January 4, 2009
“Hardships Turned to Hardcore Crazies”
You know, little journal, I never explained why I’m stuck here. Aren’t you just dying to know? I know you’re totally wondering why my life has been so hard and why my useless parents ditched me here. It all started when I was born seventeen long and torment filled years ago. Just kidding, I won’t take you back that far. But really, I guess it all started when I was about 14. My parents were in the midst of a divorce, my best friend had just moved all the way across the country to Sacramento and I was positive I had some sort of depression related disorder, not that my parents cared. As if freshman year isn’t hard enough I had to get hit with this all at once. The depression didn’t exactly help either. It’s probably what made everything escalade to the extremes, but nevertheless these were pretty tough situations. Arguments were abundant in my household. Mom was always screaming or crying; Dad drank a lot and got angry pretty easily. He was constantly punching things, never people, just walls and doors and stuff. He had to get his anger out somehow. “Better the wall than me,” I always used to say. I tried to talk to my mom about getting me help with my depression, but she was always too busy to care. She worked two jobs and had to take care of my baby sister, so there wasn’t much time left for me. I didn’t much care, I liked my alone time. I still do.
I had heard about people cutting themselves in order to ease their emotional pain. At first I thought it was a load of bull, but between you and me, little journal, the more I read about it, the more I wanted to try. So I did the normal, stupid teenage thing… I tried it. Surprisingly, it worked. It really and truly did. It was crazy, it felt like an out of body experience. I seriously felt like I was watching myself from above. Wow, that sounds a lot like a drug, but to me it was kind of like one. It was addicting and it gave me a high. Cutting myself was a rush, it made me feel alive. I knew it was wrong, but my life was wrong. What was one more problem going to do? It made me feel better, less dead, less numb. It sounds kind of sick to most people, but I’m sure you won’t judge me, little journal. Every single time I cut, I laughed. I could smile as the blood trickled down my arm. I could sit with the cool razor in my hand and just barely press it to my skin and feel joy flowing to my brain. It was crazy. It was amazing. It was pure and it was simple. It was my own little ritual to make life manageable.
I wasn’t open about it; I hated the weird stares I got from the other kids. I always wore long sleeves to cover up the scars. I wasn’t ashamed by any means, it was just hard to walk around without someone saying, “What happened to you?!” It was annoying so I covered up. Eventually, I got to the point where cutting one thin line wasn’t enough for me. I needed to cut three times, four times, maybe even five before the rush came. It really was like a drug. As life at home became harder to handle, cutting became more and more important. There were days where I would sit in my room for hours, the longest time being 3 hours and 16 minutes, cutting and then watching myself bleed. The out of body experience came less and less often. Parents screaming weren’t the problem anymore. Now, I just simply needed the cut to make it through the day. When I couldn’t get the high, I’d be miserable and snappish. My depression was worse than ever. I was haunted with nightmares, during the day and the night, of murders and suicides, maniacs screaming and laughing as I dangled from a rope necklace. It was terrible. My whole life was a circle of sorrow, cutting and scream educing nightmares.
I gave drugs a try, nothing too hardcore, at first. I’m sorry you have to know this journal. I was a bad kid. I smoked pot day in and day out. Once I had too much of that in my system, I couldn’t get a high. I couldn’t find anything to fix me. I did anything I could think of to bring back the good high, that out of body experience. I needed it to rid myself of those dreams. By the time I was 16, I had tried cocaine a total of eight times, it helped at first but eventually, it made the depression worse. I couldn’t get good high, only the high that makes scary things worse. I couldn’t get that out of body freedom. I only knew of one more way to really get that out of body experience. I had read on some stupid internet blog that this one guy stuck a fork into the toaster and electrocuted himself. He was excruciatingly close to death but amazingly survived. He said he felt as though his spirit was separating from his body and seconds before it totally left, he came back to life. It was crazy, but I needed that high. I didn’t exactly want to die… I just needed to almost die. I wasn’t sure how to do it, and I didn’t really want to try the toaster thing. It’d land me in a hospital and I didn’t want everyone to think I was crazy. I’m not crazy, you know that, right journal? I’m not crazy. I wasn’t crazy! On my 17th birthday, I decided to swallow a whole bottle of pain killers. I wasn’t sure if it’d work, but anything was better than the depression and nightmares that went on at home. I don’t remember anything from there on in, but obviously, I woke up. I never got that out of body experience. I needed it. When I say, “I needed it,” I seriously mean it. It was so stuck in my head that I would be fine once I could get it. I was willing to risk it all, little journal, I would do anything. What landed me in the hospital? Simple- a toaster, a fork and a finally concerned mother.

Troubled Thoughts- Part Duex

12:37 P.M. January 2, 2009
“From The Labyrinth to a Fantasy”
I suppose, little journal, you’re probably curious why my doctors think I’m a lost cause. Not that they’ve exactly said that, but you can see it in their eyes, especially Dr. Gwen. Recently, she doesn’t even try to hide that she’s giving up on me. I’ll bring you back to my session today and you’ll see just what I mean.
“Autumn, where do you see yourself a year from now? Do you think you’ll be living a normal life again?” Dr. Gwen said in her weary but surprisingly smooth voice, spiked with thick, faked optimism as always.
“What is normal, Dr. Gwen? To me, normal is what I’m doing right now- sitting, talking to a therapist for an hour long session. Normal is waking up and wishing to be somewhere else. A normal life is not what I wish to achieve.” She had her thinking face on. I could tell she was mulling over my ideas in her head, analyzing them and trying to think of a perfect comeback. She would do almost anything to get a real answer from me, rather than my constant rubbish and refusal to answer her.
“Okay, so then what would you like to achieve over the next year? Since normality has no meaning or purpose to you.” Her tired and smooth voice seemed to be lacking composure, even if it was only for a few moments.
“Personally, I’d like only one thing this year- to escape from this never ending, ever failing, trial and tribulation way of life. I’d like to escape from my own little ‘labyrinth of suffering,’ as my favorite author says it.” “Labyrinth of suffering” is a quote from one of my absolute favorite books, Looking for Alaska. Ever since I read it, the words haunt me in a terrific way. I think it’s a statement of beauty and pain all tied into one. The phrase explains how I feel every morning when I wake up, open my eyes and realize I’m still alive in this awful place. I’ve mentioned this to Dr. Gwen a few times now and she gets a little unnerved when I mention the story. She barely, but noticeably shook her head and let out a light sigh. I looked up at the clock; it read 11:13 A.M. Thirteen minutes?! I had only wasted thirteen short minutes with my rubbish today, not a record by far. I waited for her to ask another meaningless question, but none came. I watched as she got up and said, “That will be all for today. Goodbye Autumn.”
You see, little journal, this never happens. I don’t understand why she’d do this. She says that she can see me making progress, what kind of progress, I’m not sure, but she sees it. And then during my session she just randomly bails? What was with that? Whatever. It’s not like I really cared anyways. Maybe she’s finally realizing that I’m fine and that I’m just another case of teenage angst. You know what, little journal, I’m glad she bailed. Now I can spend the day listening to Senses Fail and reading my hundreds of fantasy stories. The only problem with them is that they give the illusion that life can have a happy ending. Trust me, it never really ends that way.
I’ve seen many an interview where authors say that their fantasy ideas come from reality, but I’m not buying it. Come on, think about it. No one falls in love with a mysterious and handsome vampire, risks her life on a crazy cliff dive and survives just to ruin it all and become a vampire herself. No one meets the love of their life due to a one night chance at the royal ball or the school dance. It’s called fiction for a reason. You get me, right little journal? If everyone’s life can be turned into a fantasy story, then I sure as hell got cheated. What’s my story? Teenage angst, therapy, the psychiatric ward at the hospital- must be the unwritten story that no one’s thought of yet. Remind me to write that one later. Trust me, little journal, if you had eyes, you could see mine rolling from a mile away.
-Love, Autumn Ray

Troubled Thoughts- Part One

A story of teenage angst, depression, suicide and hope.
9:48 A.M. January 1, 2009
“New Start, Same Story”
It’s a new year, a new start- at least that’s what they told me. But in my mind, nothing will change; life will go on just the same as it did before. I’ll just keep going through this cycle- try, fail, break down, hopeless, the hospital… and then I’ll “start over” try, fail, you know. The cycle repeats itself just like it always does. I go through it every single time and I’m goddamn sick of it. Nothing is going to change my life, especially not a new year. A new start? It’s more like another chance to mess up. Today’s just another day with the same trials, with the same people and the same crap the pull, in this same sickening place. Ridiculous? I think yes.
So, my shrink thinks it will be good for me to write about my life. You know, the everyday occurrences and stuff. She says it will help me to “heal.” I swear I’ve told her a million times, I don’t need to get better. I don’t want to. She says I’m in denial and that it’s keeping me from admitting my desire to be fixed. I’m not in denial; I’m just done trying to fix the unfixable. Personally, I think that my shrink needs her own personal therapist. It’d probably do both her and me some good. Anyways, she wants me to write about my whole life, starting from whenever I choose and ending when I’m “better.” It’s pretty stupid, but it’ll all be recorded in you, a journal, a stupid little black and white journal. There will be ignorance, irritation and probably enough sarcasm to power the entire teenage race, but bear with me, little journal. Maybe someday, someone will read you and actually enjoy my life’s story. Yeah, right. Oh, Dr. Gwen, if only you could see how ridiculous this little journal is. There isn’t a person in the right mind that would ever care to learn about a teenage girl trying to overcome her “issues.” Oh, Dr. Gwen, don’t you understand that this little project isn’t going to help anyone?
To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I’m writing in you right now, little journal. I mean, I have some pretty tough problems, things you would never understand. What could writing possibly do to help me recover from the pain I’ve been through? I heard Dr. Gwen say that you’re super important to my treatment. I don’t know why nor do I care, but that’s beside the point. It’s sad isn’t it, knowing that a genius doctor and the best psychiatrist in the state need you to write a story in order to make you better? There is the fact that I refuse to cooperate during my therapy sessions, but still. Writing my life story?! I guess there’s nothing to lose, not that I even need help, but here it goes. Little journal, I just want to let you know that I’m going to bring you back to a time that wasn’t so pretty. There will be lots of blood and guts and tears, but if you stick with me through it all and who knows what will happen.
-Autumn Ray