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Snowflakes

I breathe it in.

Head in the clouds. That’s how you’d describe me. But the colors of the clouds, no one sees those, the jagged edges hidden behind the soft looks.

I’m back here again and again, wanting more than last time. Wanting to numb what I’m feeling. Make my mind feel, think, or do something else. It’s still happiness even if it’s artificial.

The snowflakes glisten in the light that is held in my lamp.

They bring this sort of comfort to me, even though they just sit there, stuck in the clouds.

They sit there. I sit there prepared with my card, ready to disperse from my thoughts, ready to feel okay.

I breath it in. It hurt less then last time. I relax in my chair, almost relieved at how easy it was.

Those clouds fill my head again, fogging my every other thought. I feel better I think. I’m not sure. All I know is I want more. More release.

People don’t understand that those snowflakes have sharp edges and a cold touch; they can bring pain. But if the pain is easier to take than the one I face in my head, why should I not bring myself to face it?

They bring a beauty to life that I’ve forgotten. When I look at those crystals, shining and glistening in the light I feel happy, I feel better, better than I was before at least.

Again if I can bear the pain, just to feel better, why stop now?

My mom walks in. I scatter the evidence around on my desk. She doesn’t suspect anything so far. She walks closer to me. Her arms cover my head. Her kiss is warm and sticky on my forehead.

“You know I love you, right?” she says softly, as her breath hits my head.

“Yeah. I love you too.”

“How’s school going?”

“Oh, you know, same old stuff.”

“Mhm,” she says with a probing mom tone.

All I’m wishing for is that she’ll walk away. Stop caring. I’m a lost cause. She shouldn’t have to care about me. It’s an endless battle. I don’t want to burden her with my fucked up head.

“Well, okay, make sure you get some sleep.”

“Okay mom.”

She walks out of the room and closes my door softly. I take a deep breath, a breath of relief.

Then it hits me. My eyes roll to the back of my head. I don’t see anything for a second. It all blurs away. Everything. My thoughts and my emotions, they all fade into this fog that fills my head.

I come back into reality, but I still can’t comprehend what is around me. All I know is that I feel. I feel better.

I feel better than I did before.

I have some kind of release from the pain and the agony I was facing from the monsters inside my head—the demons lurking behind the scenes pulling the strings that make me do these things. How stereotypical, right? To blame something else for my own suffering.

So, maybe I am just another average teen who happens to be depressed. Who’s story is told through what teachers see and the faded lines on my arms?

Maybe I am who they think. Maybe I am depressed. Maybe I am the story that I hear over my shoulder whenever I walk down the carnivorous halls of the cafeteria.

Or maybe I’m not. Maybe my family life is fine. Maybe I’m not the one who cuts because they are suffering.

Maybe I’m the guy who gets high because he doesn’t want to think. Not think about the girlfriend he has, the next track meet or practice, the guy who doesn’t want to think about the fact that he was accepted into UCLA, or that his mother is concerned. Maybe I’m that guy.

But that story isn’t sad enough. It’s not enough of an excuse for me to want to get high. It doesn’t meet today's societal standards. It’s not good enough. It's not good enough for your pity.

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