She is perfect. I know you can hear that from a billion different people, and a billion different ways it is said. But she is truly perfect. Not for her beauty, for society would find a way to wriggle their meaty little claws and rip that accusation to threads. Not for her personality either, because she talks like crazy and can sometimes say the wrong things. But...she is perfect for her smile.
She smiles over little things, even when her heart is broken and there are tears rushing down her face. She smiles at that stupid joke made in the middle of a funeral, even if she knows it is wrong by the glare the people around her give. She smiles when the sun is high in the clouds, shining upon her face, or when the rain is pouring, tapping against her window, beckoning her outside. She smiles as if it is the last smile she is ever going to smile, and though her teeth are crooked and are covered in metal brackets of her old fashioned braces, and even though people push her down and laugh at her, she is always smiling.
Now although you might not be able to tell, you might start to notice. You know someone like her, don't you? Or are you this girl, or boy even? You know that they are always smiling, even when they are wearing jumpsuits in the middle of blistering summers, or when their abusive parent leaves bruises on their body that they try to hide.You don't think you have ever seen them cry, have you? Or maybe if they were, it was over something big, but it passed quickly. You can't quite remeber that moment can you?
All you can think about when you think of him or her is that smile. Well, what if I told you I am that girl?
I love almost everyone. Even the people who scream nasty names at me like dyke or faggot, or even the ones who just pretend I don't exist. Because that is the right thing to do, at least as I have been taught. The only person I can't seem to love, is myself. Because day after day, those nasty names, those shoves and glares and awkward smiles that I recieve, that are routine for me, help me build up that smile, that barrier from the outside. Because every single little comment, I take and tumble around in my head for hours, slowly letting it make it's way into my heart.
By then, the beast is ready to consume me. That beast named Depression with the capitol D. He succked in all the air from my lungs, and is the one controlling me as I reach for the razors, for the lighter, for that one last pill. He is the one who laughs and writhes in joy as I drag the blade across my skin. He helps me smile, after all, I couldn't by myself, not after sobbing alone in the dark vicinity of my room.
He helps, not in the way a therapist would, not in the way a friend or a parent could, but in the way only your deepest darkest fears could. In the same way he laughs at the droplets of blood, the wine colored bruises around my body, or the tears I let fall when no one is looking, he laughs when I try to cover up the scars, to hide it, because I know I am going to check every few minutes, running my fingers over the soft, red puffy skin.
I'm just making sure I'm still here. That the pain was real. The insomnia and the euphoric feeling was real, and that it wasn't just a dream, that I could do it however long I wanted to. But remember, I am only allowed to feel. The beast always is warning me, hushing my secret, making sure I tell no one. Because that would end our fun, wouldn't it? You, and all of the others, you people would see behind the smile, behind the carefully constructed mask. That thin wall of ice between you and the truth would be broken, and I would never be able to fix it.
Knowing you people, you would try to fix me. You would break me, send me to the hospital, make me feel as if what I am doing is wrong, as if feeling happy is just a way of masking pain, as if I don't have the right to feel that beautiful mixture of pleasure and sadness. You would send me to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, therapist after therapist, dissect my mind bit by bit, over the span of weeks, months, even years to piece my fragile little mind together.
The beast doesn't want that. His clumped fur and sharp teeth would taunt me, willing to tear me apart from the inside. I promise it would only hurt me more. I mean, yes, it closes some doors, and I can't exactly go swimming anymore, but I am happy. I am not drinking or using drugs, but I am happy, in a way that prevents any actual physical harm to my brain. Isn't that lovely? Don't you want me to be happy?
Well then keep looking at the smile, because I am already breaking down my walls.
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Hey guys! This is only a prelude, I promise it will get better as you go. Chapter one of supposedly 38, 39 or so...? Maybe more, if editing goes right. I will try to post at least once a week! I wish you well!
