then you become real

|| from a favorite childhood story of mine... such wisdom in such simplicity ||



The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.


“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”


“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”


“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.


“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”


“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”


“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”


“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.


But the Skin Horse only smiled.


_________


The Velveteen Rabbit
|| Margery Williams

the true tragedy

When my final post for NSPW didn’t come on time, or even a day or two later, I wonder if anyone cared. I wonder if you just assumed I was too busy to write. Or maybe you didn’t even check my blog, because you think it’s a stupid way to keep up with my life. Maybe you don’t care about my life anyway. But... did it ever cross your mind that I might have committed suicide, and my blog had been left empty for the wind to scatter like ashes? I don’t say that lightly, to get attention, or cause concern over my mental state. My point is simply that we take people’s lives for granted. We assume that they’ll always be here, just because we think they should be. That’s a true tragedy to me, because we say that people shouldn’t kill themselves because life is precious, but while they’re alive we treat them like their lives are worthless. We say that suicide is selfish, but we live our whole lives so selfishly, we make it painful for others to live. I’m not trying to justify suicide, but I think that we are so oblivious to why people embrace death so eagerly and give up their lives so willingly.

NSPW: Day Six

NSPW Day Six. Don't worry, Day 7 is on its way.


A letter, to you --

I think that sometimes the people that we choose to try and forget are the hardest to. Somehow they then become the easiest ones to remember, for better or for worse. Your heart becomes used to the thought of always having them near, in one sense or another, just hoping and waiting for a chance. But then you wake up one day and things have changed and you realize that now, you must force yourself to forget the person you loved. To shove everything out of your mind and your heart and your life and try to pick up the pieces of whatever’s left and move on. To live your life from day to day and act like nothing’s happened, but inside there’s still something missing, and you know deep down that it’ll never be the same. Somehow you’re still falling apart bit by bit because you’d built your life together at one point with the little pieces of that one person you’d grown to love, and now it hits you, that you’ll have to start all over again but this time without them. The pain of forgetting seems like enough to push everything away, make you want to end everything so you can escape it.

You wake up one day and friends have turned to enemies that hide in shadows, eager for the chance to slit your throat when you’re lost in thought. Friends, who you thought you could trust with everything you believe in, who show you all you’ve really been chasing is a shadow of an idea because you were so desperate for someone to love you. Those friends who now leave nothing but a bitter taste in your mouth. They’re forgiven, but the pain isn’t forgotten because it’s just not that easy anymore when you’re struggling to stay alive. They don’t think you’ll find out what they’ve done, they don’t think you’ve heard the whispers of your name and all the rumors they’ve spread, they don’t think you’ll notice that everyone treats you differently now because you were the girl who made the mistake of living and loving.

Now you’re back home and you’re sick and they might never see you again but all you can think about is the one person you wished you didn’t have to try and forget. All you can wonder is if all the words they said hurt him as much as they hurt you, and if he’s trying to forget it all too, or if there’s some part of him that just doesn’t want to let go of you. Even though you know the truth that it was all in your head and you should just disappear until the flames die down, you still blame yourself. And the voices in your head don’t help much at all to reassure you that it wasn’t all your fault, that you aren’t a failure, that you still have hope. But it seems like sticks and stones would be softer than all those things you heard spoken about you behind your back. And to think we used to say words could never hurt us.

Words cut like knives because what people forget is that it’s not just about what a person says but what the words they say actually mean. Words carry a lot more depth than a jumble of letters pushed together.

You tell a girl already struggling with depression that she’s fat; to her, it doesn’t just mean she’s not thin enough. It means she’s not good enough, and she thinks she might never be. She’ll wake up the next morning and look in the mirror, beginning to accept what you said as true, and then she’ll try to decide whether or not to eat her next meal. She’ll start to hate her body, not because she’s unsatisfied with it, but because you were, and she thinks that if you view her as overweight then everyone else must also. And who could love a fat girl?, she thinks. She convinces herself that losing weight isn’t a bad thing; that it just proves she’s strong enough to resist temptation, and that it’ll be worth it because people love people who are thin, people who are pretty; and that’s what she wants to be now. In her mind, she wants to be thin and pretty. But in her heart, all she ever wanted was to be accepted and loved for who she was, no matter what size her waist was.

You call a boy who’s already insecure, ‘emo’ or ‘gay’, and he’ll laugh it off then but at night he’ll cry himself to sleep, not because he’s weak but because he begins to believe that there’s something wrong with being the way that he is (regardless of whether or not he’s actually emo or gay). He’ll play around in his mind with the idea of suicide because he thinks that if he’s gone then he won’t have to listen to the taunting from the echoes of your voice in his head, and it’s not like anyone would care anyway because now he believes that no one could ever love him for who he is. But he’s not entirely sure that he’s ready to leave this world yet, so to put up with all that he’s feeling, while everyone’s asleep he leaves reminders on his skin of how much he hates himself. He wears that jacket now not because he’s cold but because he doesn’t want you to see the scars on his wrists that reflect the scars on his heart.

What hurts the most is not always the simplicity of bullying by calling names, but by name-calling contributing to the breakdown of an already-suffering individual. Yeah, it hurts to be called ‘fat’, ‘pathetic’, ‘weak’, and ‘worthless’. But it feels a lot worse when someone calls you a name that you’re already questioning whether or not you are. Verbal bullying is like negative affirmation. The last thing a depressed individual that’s contemplating their value as a person needs to hear is that others think there’s something wrong with who they are. Maybe it’s meant as a joke. But what those names tell him is that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll always be one step behind where he should be; left forever lonely and unlovely. Lost and wandering, wondering why his life even matters anymore. Those words -- ‘worthless’, ‘ugly’, ‘bulimic’ -- were enough to push him over the edge because they contributed to the overall instability of his heart desperately trying to hold onto somewhere he could call home, someone he could call a friend.

Believe me, I know what it’s like to be called names. I know what it’s like to hate every inch of yourself because you think that if you weren’t quite so different, other people might actually like you. I know what it’s like to wonder if anyone in the world will ever love you. But trust me when I say that you can’t let those thoughts take over or they will be what destroys you in the end. No matter how many times people tease you, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you wish you could die, don’t ever give up. Life is a gift, and you shouldn’t let mean people steal it away from you. Please, stay alive. Embrace who you are even though you may be different from the rest, and show them that your life is worth living. Show them that no matter how many times they beat you down, you will always rise up again stronger.

I promise, it’s worth the fight. And I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to.

Sincerely,

--
Scribbles

NSPW: Day Five

NSPW Day 5. I’m a day behind. Apologies.


A letter, to you --

It’s dark outside and I’m on my way to nowhere, driving down the road and wishing I wasn’t so worthless. The bright beams from my headlights illuminate whatever’s ahead and the blur of lights from the passing traffic in the next lane seems like shooting stars to me but I know that wishing for something I’ll never have is pointless now, no matter how much I want it. I don’t know where I’m going but the exit signs show me I’m far away from the place I used to call home. The painted lane lines give me some sort of direction and the static of the radio in the back of my head keeps me awake but I’m barely there anyway because of all the thoughts in my head drowning out the silence.

The cars seem to be driving faster towards me and I wonder what would happen if I were to stray too far to the left. I wonder if I would feel anything as my vehicle collided with another, if I would hear the crunch of metal hitting metal. I wonder if I would stay alive long enough to feel the pain shooting through my entire body and paralyzing me, or if I would be gone as soon as the glass shattered into my face, staining the dashboard a deep crimson hue. And I wonder what would happen after that, after I’m dead. Sirens would blare as they sped up the road towards the site of the accident. My lifeless body would stay there to be found and carried away to cry over. There would be questions, so many questions. There would be a few empty hearts, unable to understand what made me choose to end it. But I wish there would be at least one person wondering what had allowed me to keep going for so long without giving in to the pain.

And the truth is, for a while I didn’t know what kept me alive. But something, everyday, inspires me to wake up and choose life. I live for love. I live for hope. I live for a better tomorrow. Even though I’m broken, if I can help to make someone else’s life more beautiful than it had been before, that’s a reason to keep me here another day. We all struggle with the great questions of identity and purpose at some point in our lives. And I’ve found the answers to who I am and why I’m here. But that doesn’t change the fact that some days I wake up and wonder if I would be better off dead because I’m not making a difference to anyone anyway.

I can’t help but ask: If I died today, would you really care? Would it really change your life in any way? Or would everything there still be the same? From my point of view, your perfect little world remains within your command while mine spirals out of control, but maybe I’m wrong because I think I know better than most that the most important things in life are the most difficult to put into words. And sometimes they’re the things we take for granted. But I’m tired of having my life continually taken for granted and I’m tired of feeling like I’m not worth loving. I think it’s wrong for people to just expect me to stay here if they’re going to treat me so badly that I’m dying to leave.

I heard a speech once about how individuals could make a difference; could change the world because they were empowered to do so by Someone greater than themselves. The true inspiration of the speech wasn’t just what the speaker said, but how he lived. The seemingly shy boy who spoke those words has made all the difference, living as a light to a world drenched in darkness. He’s the boy who hides behind an arrogant facade, but I’ve seen pain within the depth of his cerulean eyes, because he’s the boy who many notice but few actually care about. He’s the boy whose heart seems fragile to me, and I wonder how many times he’s felt broken before. But he’s also the boy who inspires me to keep living, to push past the pain, because of his choice to continue breathing. His gentle confidence gives me the courage to stay alive; to believe that life means more than a heart simply beating.

What he will never realize is that he’s a reason I choose to wake up in the morning; he’s part of what stops me from the inevitable end. He is what makes me believe that it’s incredible to still be alive. He holds the power to influence the lives of others, and maybe I don’t mean anything to him anymore; maybe I never did. But he is enough to keep me alive.

To me, living an ordinary life is like being trapped in a nightmare. My dream is to live a radical life; for every hour to ride on the wings of the western winds. Every night, the voices return and I have to decide all over again whether to give up and forget everything or to hang on to hope. Recovery isn’t easy. I still look in the mirror every morning and struggle with not hating what I see. Every moment, I’m fighting to stay in this world because I know that it’ll be worth it in the end. And sometimes, I wish you would just hold my hand like you knew that if you let go you’d lose me forever. Because the tragedy would be finding out that truth the hard way if you really did care.

I’ve decided for tonight that I’ll drive in between the lines and keep my eye out for signs of the sunrise. Something so simple reminds me of how beautiful life is. Darkness always flees from light; it never stays and fights. No matter how dark the shadows of my heart, the pain can never be deep enough to defeat the light that love brings. I won’t surrender my life to death just yet.

Sincerely,

--
Scribbles


P.S. There are no words to describe how perfect this song is. That's why it's my favorite. Please, listen with your whole heart: Loved & Looked After (Acoustic EP) - Action Item

NSPW: Day Four

NSPW Day 4. Better late than never.


A letter, to you --

Here’s a dream pulled from the depths of my mind from a few days ago. Even though we barely speak, in my dreams we’re best friends. Freshly lined with tears, may this remind you in some small way of how much you mean to me. Please, stay alive. It’s not just your life you have to lose.


It’s so late now but if you were here you’d say it was still early. The night is young, you’d say, and I’d probably laugh and sing the chorus of that summer song you liked so much, the one you made me listen to a thousand times until I reluctantly agreed that it was a masterfully crafted work of art even though we both knew that I had the better taste when it came to music. Then you’d roll your eyes and say something barely poetic but I’d accept it like a classic Shakespearean sonnet and that would be that.

I know that if you had been there when I started to drift off at this hour, you’d have smiled softly and left a kiss as light as a butterfly’s touch on my forehead before whispering in my ear about a quick trip for coffee. And then off we’d go, hand in hand, because ten minutes together meant the world to a couple of dreamers and the starry sky was too glorious to miss. We’d have walked most of the way in silence, simply content to be present in a world we were determined to change for the better. I would have glanced over at you a few times because I loved how you looked when you were lost in thought, and I knew you were gazing off into a distant paradise, and that was the place I knew someday we’d both run away to and no one could convince us otherwise. That was me and you; two brave souls standing against a troubled world. But it was too early on for me to notice that the world we both loved and hated was starting to make you sick of yourself, and you never said a word.

If you’d been there, I would have smiled at the warmth of the coffee shop and officially welcomed you to Wonderland. Then you’d have teased me about how boring I was to order the same type of coffee every visit, and I would have insisted that I was maybe predictable but never boring. That was how we always did it. At that point, you would have eaten the whipped cream off my drink because you liked chocolate syrup better than I did, and I would have sipped your coffee before you joked about contamination. Then you would have quoted a witty line from one of your favorite movies and I would have commented on how difficult it was to comprehend advanced algebra or any math for that matter and that I much preferred some type of science like physics or chemistry or we could make up our own ideas if you wanted. Because nothing could ever stop us and we both knew that very well which was why the serious moment never surprised us. We were invincible, and we lived because we loved it.

I would have never traded those few moments that could have existed but we never got around to. We would have finished our drinks after finishing our debate over foreign policy and music, but in the end we both won because that was how it always worked. We would have lingered at the coffee shop a little longer, because you would have wanted to read the story I wrote in my worn blue journal, like you did every week. You always liked my writing, always had an insightful word of advice, and always claimed my words inspired you to do something greater, be someone greater. And whenever you said that, the edges of my mouth would turn up in a smile and I would start to believe it again, because you knew that even little things like that meant the world to me and you were the person that could make my day better no matter what battles we had to fight to win. You were my best friend in the whole wide world and I loved you for who I knew you to be, for the person you wanted to be, for the beautiful person that you are.

But we didn’t go to the coffee shop to conquer our fears because you weren’t here. You weren’t here anymore. I’d just gotten home late from work and my phone vibrated in my pocket. One new text message. One new message... and suddenly the room spun inside and around my head and I didn’t feel so strong anymore. You weren’t there to hold me up so I fell to the ground and screamed with all I had left because nothing mattered anymore. You were gone. You were gone, and there was nothing I could do to bring you back. You were dead, by your own hand. They say that there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel but I knew that this was the point where the entrance to my tunnel caved in and I was left trapped forever in the darkness and you weren’t there to help me find my way out. I wish I could remember what the last words I said to you were; I hope they were something important. And I wish they’d been enough to save you. That’s something I’ll forever regret.

The question I keep asking myself is if you had me from the first hello, was I not enough to keep you alive? I loved you and I still do and I guess I don’t know why all the memories and the moments seemed to mean nothing to you. I keep wondering if it was something I said or did that made you want to end it; or maybe it was something that I didn’t say, something I didn’t do that would have made you stay if I had. I wish I could have understood what battle you were so determined to fight on your own that you had never even told me about. I wish I knew why even though I already know. I know about all the pain you felt. I know about the overwhelming feelings that turned your world upside down and you weren’t sure if it would ever be right again. I know about the scars, about the self-hate and the persistent desire to die. I know about all that and I know that all that had built up inside of you but I thought that we were stronger than all of it. I thought you and I, together, could fight off the monsters stuck in both of our heads because you said you’d always be here but now I’m left alone to decide whether to keep going or to surrender to those demons.

I want to scream but I don’t know if I’ll be heard because you were the only one who ever listened. I’m drowning in my tears, sinking in my sorrow, wondering if I should push on until tomorrow. I know that there’s still hope. But I wish you had seen it and I wish I could have loved you enough to help you believe it, to realize that love is what makes life worth living. You were beautiful to me. You were so lovely, so strong. But I guess I was wrong about you.


You have no idea, how your very existence impacts my life. Please, remember that I love you. Remember, and stay alive.

Sincerely,

--
Scribbles

P.S. You may say my mind is a dark place to dream about suicide. But I say that dreams come from our hearts, and my heart is filled with a desire to love until it hurts. To love until my whole heart bursts, and maybe it will be enough to cause someone to choose life instead of death.

NSPW: Day Three

Eleven years after the tragedy of 9/11, today we remember those love ones who were lost, and we honor those who sacrificed their lives for the sake of our freedom. Our nation was shaken to its roots; our national defense and our national confidence disrupted. But somehow, in the midst of deep grief and loss, our nation found a way to stand again. We chose to believe in something greater than the principles of those who sought to destroy us. We held onto something more powerful than destruction. We had found a way to hold on to hope again.

I believe that recovery is possible. And if a nation can rise back out of the ashes, so can an individual, no matter how many times they’ve been broken. All the things that we might have let break us apart can lead us to emerge stronger and more determined than ever to live a life worth remembering.

Maybe if the rest of us opened up our hearts to love a little bit more, to sacrifice a few of our comforts, to reach out to the broken hearts around us; maybe we could change the world by changing a few minds, changing a few lives. Maybe we could create a better world where people choose to live instead of choosing to die. As a nation, we are strongest when we are united. As a people, we harness the power of freedom and responsibility. As an individual, I wish to see a world where lives are claimed by love instead of death.

When someone commits suicide, everyone around them pays the price in one way or another. There is always a cost. Someone will always end up broken, even blaming themselves for what happened. People touch others with their lives, whether they realize it or not. I can name at least three people on the spot who have changed my life for the better, even if they will never know. It would crush me if any one of them were to take their own life because they believed that they didn’t matter.

Not too long ago, a friend of mine paid the price when her father, an active member of the U.S. military, committed suicide. This letter is for her. Even though she may never read it, it’s out there, and maybe it’ll make a difference to someone.

A letter, to M --

Truth be told, it’s been a while. But today was enough to remind me of how close we’d been at one point, a few years ago, even though now we never see each other. Maybe it was my fault or maybe it was yours or maybe it was both of us just not noticing as our lives drifted father apart. The memories we made from that one sleepover in late July (was it really back in 2008?) still bring back a smile; when life was simple and the only thing that kept us up at night were deep discussions over Psalm 23 and long talks about what God had in store for our lives. I wonder if you still remember anything I said to you then, and if any of it mattered at all or if it was just the kind of chatter for late nights that’s soon forgotten upon waking with the dawn.

I remember hearing the news several months ago, that your father was gone. I wonder what went through your mind when your family told you. Or if maybe you were the one who discovered it. I wish I could hear all the questions that rushed upon you as your heart skipped a beat before shattering apart. I wish I could know what you felt as you realized that your hero was gone. And I just wish I could have been there to hold your hand and help you through.

I don’t know how close you and your father were. I don’t know what regrets you carry or memories you cherish. And I don’t know if you ever suspected what he would do. But what I do know is that he was your dad, and it still hurts. There will always be a part of you that aches whenever you remember, because no matter how much or how little you cared, he was there and now he’s not.

I know I can’t understand all of what you felt, or what you feel now, but I want you to know that I do care. Across the many miles apart we now live, across the time since we’ve seen each other, I still carry you in my heart. You inspire me with your strength and your courage, by continuing to live; by finding a reason to keep believing that things will get better. Your joy found new in each day despite your pain is a light shining through the darkness. Thank you for touching my life.

You are loved, M. You are loved more than you will ever know.

Please, don’t forget. Please, stay alive.

NSPW: Day Two

This year, the second day of NSPW is also World Suicide Prevention Day. I was planning to say something more eloquent than this, but my thoughts have blurred together and I just can't seem to express the depth of emotions I wish to convey in words. With a knot in my throat and a sigh on my lips, here's a poem written from leftover love songs and broken bits of my heart. Suicide prevention shouldn't be reduced to just solving a problem. Suicide prevention is about saving a person's life. I'll never forget the reason my heart's still beating. Please, stay alive.

A Lonely Tragedy


Days slip away
Golden sunbeams fade
Your smile is but a memory
Trying to remember whether
We are living to love or to lose

Passing through lonely streets
They’re full of people but so empty
We’re hollow beings now
These lives are never enough
So alone still

Beautiful serenity
Seems an impossible feat
Just a dream out of reach
Always, forever
Too weak to grasp, to reach

Feelings dissolve into numbness
Nothing matters because
We can’t feel
Anything anymore anyway
But suddenly it’s cold

Winter wind sweeps down upon us
Leaves us shivering
Cracked and bleeding lips
Trembling hands
Fragile life

Heart hanging on a thread
Barely there
Frozen tears, pale cheeks
They’ve forgotten now
Tragedy pierces the heart

Looking back
There’s so much to wish for
I want to teach you to remember
Believe in hope
Rescue will come to
Save me

NSPW: Day One

Tears cold as ice melt from the corners of tired eyes as he closes them and tries to imagine what it would feel like to live past daylight. Crimson drops of the sunset drip down his skin because the knife is his only friend. His heart is stained past midnight and he wonders if he'll make it until tomorrow or if tonight should be the time to say goodbye to the stars before he joins them. And why not? He already feels as distant as they are from anyone's touch, and love is an impossibility he thinks he'll never know.

This individual represents the masses that struggle with depression, self-harm, and suicide. These are the people for whom this week is dedicated: National Suicide Prevention Week.

Depression isn't "just a phase". Self-harm isn't "just for attention". Suicide isn't "a sign of cowardice". Individuals who struggle with one or all of these things are in pain, and the number of lives taken by the lie that the hurt will never end continues to rise.

Across the world, 121 million people suffer from depression. 2/3 of those suffering from depression never seek help. Self-harm increases the probability of an individual committing suicide. The primary cause of suicide is untreated depression, and suicide is the third leading cause of death among adolescents.

But something can be done about it. It is possible to prevent someone from becoming another suicide statistic. Pain ends, but lives don't have to because of it.

Love is real. Help spread the message of HOPE: Hold On, Pain Ends.

How? One step is to spread awareness and support To Write Love On Her Arms: http://www.twloha.com/blog/join-twloha-for-national-suicide/

Seven days of suicide awareness. A blog post for every day. Stay tuned. Love loud.