It's_Just_Me

A daily log of my life....

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1. Log #1

Its_Just_Me - Log #1

Saturday, November 5, 2015  8:26am

(If he was still alive, today would have been Great Grandpa’s 83rd birthday.)


 

I woke up this morning almost the same way I wake up every weekend morning. Almost. What was different? Not the rising sun through my window, tinted turquoise by my curtains. Not how warm and comfy I was thanks to the cocoon of blanket and comforter that I was wrapped in. Not the morning silence of the house, broken only by the sound of the noise machine in my parents’ room.

    What was different was the way I felt when I woke up. A month ago, I would have woken up feeling lonely, cold, lost, depressed. A month ago, I would have grabbed my CD player and blasted a Three Days Grace album - typically Transit to Venus - into my head until I felt better, and I wouldn’t have left my room until my need for musical relation was satisfied. (Actually, I am listening to a Three Days Grace album - Life Starts Now - right now as I’m writing, but now it’s just for routine’s sake.)

    Now I wake up, and I’m in a good mood. I’m happy, I’m a morning person, the same way I used to be before depression ate up chunks of my happiness. I can look at the sunlight streaming through my window and appreciate the beauty of it again, instead of burying my head under the covers and closing my eyes for one more hour, just one more hour. I remember why I love mornings so much - they make me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and it’s not such a bad thing. It’s just me and the sun and the birdsong, and there’s no arguments, no wars, no bombs or guns or fires. There’s no sadness in the morning. There’s no death. Morning is symbolic of being a time of rebirth, and that’s what it feels like. I feel as though I’ve been reborn, and I am my old self again, the me that doesn’t have demons in her head who whisper and taunt her. The me who can open up her artist’s eyes and actually see. The me who can hope and believe and love.

    It’s not just in the morning that I’m changed, either. All day, I’m more cheerful than I would have been a month ago. Even when I’m alone and cold - a girl wrapped in a turquoise towel, skinny and shivering behind the shower curtain, a girl buried under sky-blue blankets and trying not to cry - the shadows don’t come. I still shiver and wait for them to start whispering, but they don’t come. I look at that cursed razor, hanging by my shampoo, but there’s nothing. I don’t feel the need for the bite of metal, I don’t have an impulse to pick up the razor:take off the safety cover:lower it to my hip bone:dig it in until I can draw pretty red lines. I don’t need it, don’t want it.

    All of that is just...gone. I look at the posts of other struggling teens and instead of feeling the same way they do, I only have the distant memory. And I wish I could tell them that “It really does get better” but I know that they wouldn’t believe me, because that’s what everyone always tells them.

    I know why I’ve changed. I know why I’m different. I know why my gray clouds have rolled away, and the sun is back in my sky.

    And the reason’s name is Francis.

    Somehow, he has turned my whole life around and scared the shadows away. Somehow, just by being by my side when I finally broke down, he brought light and color back into my world. Rare glimpses of beauty aren’t so rare anymore. I can see again, see more than just pain and sadness. I can see joy, too.

    He opened me up again, helped me find my voice, helped me find my heart. He touched my hand to hope, and I’m not letting go.

    No one could ever make me feel as safe, as comfortable, as blissfully happy as he does. My mother would say that I’m exaggerating, but I never listen anyway.

    I really do feel like he is my other half.

 
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