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We Could (Totally Never) Be

“Anybody’s got the power, they just don’t see it because they don’t understand. Everyday people do everyday things but I can’t be one of them. We are a different kind. We can do anything. We could be heroes. We could be heroes, me and you.” – Alesso / Tove Lo 

“Have you ever felt pain like this before?”

“No!”

“Is it your wish to possess this kind of power? “

“Yes!”       

“That’s the beginning.”  – Q&U, Kill Bill Vol.2 

Everybody does not have the power. If they did, then all our lives would be solved. Mexicans wouldn’t be drinking poison water right now, no woman would be trying to dig a fetus out of her vagina in the back of Quiapo church with a bent hanger right now, no dog would be dying on the Skyway right now, thrown out of a window and hit by a truck that’s doing 80 and whose driver never felt the bump.

No, everyone does not have the power.

Do you know why? Because it’s painful. Because it’s lonely. Because it’s hard.

Too painful. Too lonely, and too hard for most people.

That’s why.

I could have bought a temporary tattoo and funded an organization to make more encouraging posters about mental illness.

I didn’t do that. I was too angry. I was too alone. And death had become too real.

Do you know what death is when the dead one owned a piece of your heart? The piece of your heart that belonged to them dies with them.

It doesn’t break, understand? It dies. And you will never have it back. And the hole will be there for the rest of your life. Nothing else will ever fit. Your mind will search it out, like a tongue feeling for the missing tooth, and remind you that something was there and now it is not there anymore.

Once there was a person in that seat in the table. Once there was a dog that could be reliably found sunbathing on the porch in the late afternoon. Once there was a girl who would call and ask you to pick her up, but she doesn’t know where she is. Once there was a boy who would come and go, leaving a trail of blue smoke wherever he went. Once there were these things, and then these things would not be there anymore and nothing would ever make them come back.

You would find yourself setting the place at the table. You would find the dog’s bed, the silly clothes. You would listen to the phone not ringing. You would look at the useless ashtray. And the knife will twist.

And you will remember every single dream you had for them. The places you’ll now never go, the things you wish you bought for them when they were still alive. The new mantra: When he / she / it was still alive.

That’s what death is. It has nothing to do with eulogies or memories or flowers or caskets. Death doesn’t happen once and then let you spend your life getting over it. Death keeps happening to you forever when you are left behind.

And then there were kids who filled their lives with so much pain that dying seemed attractive. It was amazing the lengths they would go to preserve their pain and keep themselves unhappy. And I had to say something. I said it in the worst way. But I had to say it. I had to say it. I had to say it. I had to say it.

Know what happened to me for that? I was thrown into a mental hospital.

I don’t see things that aren’t there. I see things that are there, but that everyone else pretends are not there. And for that I’m insane.

“Is it any measure of health to be considered sane in a sick society?” – Andrea Gibson, sort of

I said it all in the worst way. I hurt so many people. I’ve made some people feel right and everyone else feel wrong, but which should I be more sorry for?

I’ve been warned to say nothing else. To not apologize. To say nothing more about what I said.

I was abused in the ward. I bled for days. I cried and screamed every day because I missed my kitten. And because I never saw the sun. And because there was nothing to eat. And because I didn’t know if my girlfriend and I could still be together. And because everyone only watched basketball all the time. Because I was threatened with a longer stay if I didn’t take the meds they told me to.

That’s the price I paid to speak my mind. Only to speak my mind. Even now I’m still too scared to check the messages I’ve received since that time.

I’m so alone.

I wouldn’t call myself a hero. But I can’t be one of you, that much I’m sure of. And there’s no glamour in it, no rush, nothing. Only sadness and bewilderment.

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