Oz

Sam's Song

Chapter Two

Sam's Song

"I'm too depressed to go on. You'll be sorry when I'm gone."

--Blink 182

SAM

    You may already be aware that I'm not the happiest person on earth. Maybe it's the dark hair that gives it away or the downcast eyes I can't bring myself to focus on someone for a long period of time. Or maybe it's the way I sit, curling into myself so I appear to make a smaller target. Perhaps it's the oversized t-shirts, my thin frame, the streaks of oil on my cheeks, or the light scar on my jaw that gives it away, or maybe it's some combination of those attributes that I have yet to put my finger on. Whatever the case may be, I'm not exactly a ray of fucking sunshine, and you're bonkers if you find yourself wanting to hold hands with people and sing "Kumbaya" after spending some time with me.

If you even get to do that.

I mean, it's not like I'm some sniveling weakling begging for table scraps--far from it, actually. I'm fully capable of getting the food I want, and if you don't believe me, I'll deck you to prove it. I don't need anyone to help me with my problems; I can handle them myself along with all the other shit in this world. Hell, maybe that's why people think I'm "depressed." Because I'm actually adult enough to recognize there are a lot of problems in this world, and no amount of speeches, or votes, or taxes can fix them.

I'd rather be told a terrible truth than a beautiful lie.

I also tend to spend a lot of my time withdrawn from everyone else, which is apparently sign number 1,567 of how I'm depressed. Counselors are constantly inviting me in to talk--I could probably rebuild the Eiffel Tower with all of the business cards they've given me--but I turn them all down.

Again, I can take care of myself. I always have, and I always will. Because as soon as you let someone in, as soon as you render yourself vulnerable and break down all your walls, as soon as you think maybe there is some good in this world after all, you grant someone the ability to break you, and they can and will do it. After all, what's tied down will always break free.

Believe me, I know this one from experience.

Maybe that's why people think I'm depressed. And, in this instance, they may be right.

It's just...for all of my brave words, it's fairly easy to get lost in my own mind. I'll stray from the path of sanity, exploring nooks and crannies of illusion and mystery until I can't tell real from fake anymore. It's part of the reason why I don't like to talk to people--they simply reaffirm my darkest fear:

The act of being alone, the one behavior that gives me solace, may be slowly tearing me apart. It's a strange thought, I know. I suppose you could say that I enjoy avoiding the real demons of the world in favor of creating imaginary ones of my own.

I only wonder which one of those is worse.

    But it's not like I can't deal with my own problems. I've been just fine for sixteen years, why can't I be fine for another ten, twenty, thirty even?

It's simple: I will. Even if I have to plow over my own demons to do it.

Yet I still find myself wondering some things that give me pause. Some of the ideas of the demons I've created in my mind are too dark to ignore, and still other ideas are so tempting that I consider them for way longer than is healthy.

    But it's okay for me to show a little weakness, right?

    I hope so.

    Because otherwise it means the mask I wear every day is slowly beginning to crack.