To the people who do not see me.

I haven’t updated for a while because I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I don’t matter.

I don’t matter at all not on this site and not in real life.

Sorry but this might be goodbye.

One last time I would like to leave some advice: Don’t give up on yourself. Don’t be like me.

(Goodbye, Alice.)

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Depression.

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING, IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED PLEASE DO NOT READ. STAY SAFE AND PROTECT YOURSELVES, YOU ARE IMPORTANT TO ME. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL XOXO. ❤

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I remember the first time I heard the word depression. I was in sixth grade I was sitting with my best friend Christian at the very back of the field against the fence while the other kids played soccer. We never played with the other kids because they always made us feel different or weird so we usually just hung out with a few of our other friends by the fence. Our other friends weren’t there that day so we were sitting alone and talking quietly no one usually approached us so when two girls came walking by I noticed almost imeadelty.

“what about that guy? He’s kind of cute?” One of the girls whispered behind her hands, they both looked up at us for a moment before the other girl dragged their heads back down giggling.

“Who Christian? No way, he’s depressed.” They both abruptly burst into giggles as they walked quickly away. I had no idea what the word meant except that it had something to do with being sad, so when Christian looked ashamed and wouldn’t look at me I did not know how to respond. It was clear that we had both heard it but he didn’t say anything. He made a joke to brush it off and it worked for a second but I had to be the one to bring reality crashing back down over our heads. I asked Christian if he was depressed because I was naïve, stupid and depression seemed like such a foreign thing to me besides the snippets I had heard about it from my mother.

Sure I mean I had heard things from other kids at school about some of the people I knew or had passed by in the hallway but I never really understood what all the whispering was about.  You’d see the kids, the people I hung out with mostly, the one’s deemed ’emo’ or ‘goth’. You’d hear everyone talking about them behind their backs, whispering as if they couldn’t hear them when really they could all along.

“Do you know Jason? The really quite boy who dresses like a girl, sometimes? Well, I hear that he hurts himself.”

“like, on purpose?”

“Yeah with razors or whatever. It’s weired right?”

But then suddenly it’s not just the weird kid that hide in the shadows and never talks while they’re at school or the freaks with strangely colored hair or the outcasts, suddenly it’s your best friend. Suddenly it’s the cheerleader with the perfect life, perfect boyfriend, perfect everything but the scars on her thighs say differently. Suddenly it’s that nerdy kid with the perfect grades and the intelligence to get himself out of anything. It’s the star basketball boy who has to stop playing because someone noticed the cuts around his wrists when the cover up was sweated off. It’s the know it all, confident, criminal who smokes weed in class and talks back to the teachers like he owns the classroom and not them. Suddenly it’s not just the bullied with the cut, burnt, torn up skin but the bully’s as well. Suddenly it’s that girl who smiles every day and helps everyone out with their problems, she laughs so much and she’s so happy. No one’s ever seen her cry, so how could she be it? A cutter, a burner, a binge eater, an anorexic, a self-harmer.

So know one knows what to do anymore, they don’t understand how to help. So they talk behind their friend’s back to try and figure out what to do and debate about if they’re really depressed or just doing it for attention. But what a sick thing it is if someone is harming themselves just to get some attention, if they need attention that badly their still must be something wrong with them. But no one knows how to fix it because no one’s ever taught us how to so we go about with our normal lives and forget about it. Because if you can’t fix something it will make you uncomfortable in till it is fixed so you allow it to become invisible. You do the only thing you’ve been told to do. Just pretend like everything’s normal. Ignore it. So life can go on. I’ve seen these things happen, I’ve noticed the scars on some of my own friend’s wrists but I’ve never understood why, not exactly.

So I asked Christian that day in sixth grade, I asked him to describe what being depressed felt like. He didn’t answer me that day or the next, he didn’t answer for an entire year but on the last day of school before he moved to some different state off somewhere new he did. He got real quite and then answered me after months of waiting. I don’t remember what he said word for word but it was something real close to this he said:

“When I’m depressed it feels like walking in the middle of the street when it rains. It’s raining so hard I can barely hear the world going on around me. That should scare me because if a car rounds the corner to fast I might get hit but it doesn’t scare me because I don’t really care anymore. A lot of cars will swerve around me so they won’t hit me but once in while one will stop and the person inside will offer me a ride, they look kind enough and I might actually think about accepting this time but instead I shake my head and just smile back. I tell them that I’m fine and I actually like walking through the rain it makes me feel calm, I lie to them. There’s not a right answer for that because there isn’t a list of instructions set aside for when you come across a stranger walking in the pouring rain. The person in the car will want to respect my decision and be polite even though they’ll ask again anyways only to get the same answer. As they drive away I think that some of them are secretly happy because if I had agreed I would’ve gotten their car all wet, ruined their perfection and they might have to have gone out of their way to get me home safely. That is what it feels like.”

We still talk today, but never in person he lives to far away. I just wanted everyone to know that I don’t care if you get my car wet or if I have to drive all night to get you home safely. I don’t care that you are a stranger standing in the rain and it’s soaking, I want to drive you home. Please don’t let the rain drown you out, I’ve been where your standing before. For fucks sake I’m in the middle of a rainstorm right now with crackling lightning and hail but I have an umbrella meant for any of you, don’t stand by yourself. Stay strong ❤

Drop me and email if you want someone to listen, I give crappy advice and I don’t talk much but it’s not because I don’t like having conversations I’m just a much better listener. My email is: Rbelblue@gmail.com

“Depression is a prison where you both the suffering prisoner and the cruel jailer.” ~Dorothy Rowe.

(Alice in the pouring rain)

Grow up?

Every teenager has heard it before, those two words uttered by an angry parent, sibling, teacher, adult.  Grow up!

I’ve heard it said so many times that I guess I stopped thinking about what those words really meant But today it hit me how incredibly ridiculous that is to demand of a kid, of any age. Teenager or not.

I was in my pre-ap English class when I over heard this conversation between my teacher and a student. It went somewhat along the lines of this:

“You need to act your age and stop talking back to the other kids.”

“Excuse me Mrs, but I’ve never been my age before. How am I supposed to know how to act like a number? All fifteen year old kids don’t act the same. How am I supposed to know which one to act like?”

“It’s time for you to grow up!”

“But Mrs, I am growing up. Every second of every day I grow whether I like it or not.”

 

I just thought that I would share this with you, it’s important to me because I myself have thought along such lines before.

To whoever may be reading this: Please don’t tell teenagers to act like adults and insist on treating them like kids. Some of us may act younger than we are ‘supposed’ too but I think it’s natural for someone to want to hold on to something so happy and fun before we move on in life. But other people like myself feel like we already have. Grown up, that is… We feel older, smarter, more thoughtful than our age. Please respect this… Validate our opinions despite our age. ❤

“I’ve found that growing up mean being honest. About what I want. What I need. What I feel and most importantly of all, who I am.” – anonymous.

(Growing Alice.)

Closets and monsters.

I think at one time we were all afraid of monsters lurking in our closets, in till we grew up and realized they were inside of us instead. I think that maybe some of us are still afraid of monsters and try so hard not to let anyone see the fight happening within us.

Have you ever asked yourself if the Monsters make war on us or does war make the monsters?

I’m not scared of monsters anymore, I’m afraid of the closet.

If I’m the one hiding in the closet does that make me the monster?

(Scary Alice)

Explaining my Sexuality to the oblivious.

If you are reading this you are probably wondering either “How the hell did I end up at this strange blog?” or maybe “Why is this fifteen year old girl obliged to talk about her sexuality when she hasn’t even fully figured herself out yet?”

The first one, I can’t really answer but I’m guessing you’ve just spent a little to much time searching the corners of the internet and have randomly come across someone as irrelevant as me. If you are here though, welcome! I hope you find my struggles entertaining.

The second one I can answer. I am a fifteen year old pansexual girl. But that isn’t what you want to know, right? What you want to know is why, at my age, do I think that I can be so sure of my sexuality and speak about it on the internet.

The answer is Simply complicated. It is either incredibly simple or extremely complicated depending on who you are.

I started this blog a couple weeks ago, on this writing website. I started it under an anonymous name and have only just began writing what I feel without a single worry about what troubles the words I write will bring to me. I have so many opinions, ideals, thoughts, stories and secrets that I want to write about under my own name, so people can know that this is me. But I can’t because for me to put pen and ink to a page and write is to start a war with words, where the front line of the enemy consists of my friends and family. So I write this under the name of a nobody, an Jane doe, an Alice. I can write this as someone who has no strings holding me in place like a marionette, yanking me around and forcing me into having safe opinions. I have this ideal that anyone who can speak freely, share their ideas, creativity, opinions, then staying silent is a crime. If you can write the very thoughts that appear in your mind and you don’t then you are selfish. The world needs to hear your thoughts. I want to be able to write under my real name, I want to write as a lair finally speaking the truth; in paragraphs of poetry. I want to be able to write without the repercussions of the truth.

But I am not able to, so that my dear viewer is why I feel the need to write about my sexuality, why I feel the need to explain that teenagers feelings are just as valid as adults. Even though I can’t write any of this under my real name it is still as important to me. So here I go trying to explain, hear me out.

pan·sex·u·al
 
adjective: pansexual; adjective: pan-sexual
  1. 1.
    not limited in sexual choice with regard to biological sex, gender, or gender identity.
    I like boys. I like girls. I like other. I like human beings. That is the simplest way I can put this. For as long as I can remember up to about a year and a half ago I have only ever liked boys, yet I was completely open to the idea of going out with a girl I was simply never attracted to any. A year and a half ago I fell in love with my best friend who just happened to be a girl, but I did not fall in love with her vagina. Just like when I fall in love with a guy, I do not fall in love with his penis. I actually could care less what someone has in their pants, a vagina, a penis, a pineapple, it literally would not matter to me. Because when I fall in love I fall in love with someone’s personality. Of course looks can be important but hearts have always mattered more to me than parts. I am dating a girl right now and I have dated boys, I am open to dating anyone on the gender scale, trans, non-binary, girl, boy, neither,  I don’t discriminate.
    For the people like my parents who said loving the same gender is a choice. YOU ARE WRONG! I did not make the choice to fall in love with my best friend who happens to be a girl. No one ever attempts to fall in love, it catches you off guard and most of the time it is inconvenient. Let me ask you something, did you choose to fall in love with your spouse? Or did it just happen?
    I do not order my heart around, In fact most of the time my heart is the one in control.
     Case in point : I am Pansexual. I love anyone and everyone despite what they have or do not have in their pants. To the girls, boys, and gender rebels, Stay strong. ❤  There will come a day when everyone is just as valid as everyone else in till then keep fighting. If this is a war don’t be the first to give up.
    “No one in America should ever be afraid to walk down the street holding hands with the person that they love.” ~ Barack Obama.
    (Pansexual Alice)

I’m Sorry.

I wanted to blog today, I really, really did. But I can’t bring myself to pretend like someone else cares. Not today, I just feel sick thinking about it.

I don’t blame anyone for not caring, truly I blame myself for not being good enough to make someone care.

I’m sorry I’m so negative.

I’m sorry I’m not smart.

I’m sorry I’m not beautiful.

I’m sorry I’m not good enough.

I’m sorry I’m not interesting.

I’m sorry I give up so easily.

I’m sorry that I’m lost.

I’m sorry for everything that I am.

I’m sorry that I am just a ‘kid.’

I’m so fucking sorry that I don’t try hard enough.

I’m sorry that I mess up.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t love you.

I’m sorry that I did love you.

I’m sorry for thinking I could ever do anything right.

I’m sorry. Maybe I can blog again sometime next week. I’m sorry.

(Apologetic Alice.)

I’m tiredly in love with the unreachable.

I’m so tired during the day, I find myself slipping off into my dreams instead of focusing on the problems of my realities.

I’m so tired during the night but I can’t sleep. My eyelids will grow heavy and I will toss and turn, trying to get comfortable but never finding a cure for my discomfort. I’ll stare at the back of my eyelids in till I grow tired of the off grey color and then open them seeking familiarity from the glow in the dark stars above my bed. Seeing these will only make me nostalgic for times I’ve never experienced. It will make me want to see the night sky without the effects of light pollution, dimming the stars and erasing them from the human eye.

I’ve started up a hurricane now, a hurricane within my mind. Thoughts come on after another and I find myself trying to keep up. I’ll leave the security of my bed and with it any hope of actually falling asleep and I will go sit in the window and stare at the sky.

I am obsessed with the moon. Maybe it started with me, using the existence of it to prove my parents wrong. They said, like many other parents before them. “You don’t actually feel like that. It’s just a phase you are going through.” I looked them in the eyes and opened my sketch book, I pulled out a picture and I held it out to them. “No, Mom. The Moon phases, I do not.”

I love the idea that if I’m ever lonely I can just look up and think; someone else is looking at the moon too and maybe, they care just as much as I do.

I love the story’s people tell about how the moon fell in love with the sun. I think of the sun and the moon as lovers, literal star-crossed lovers. They rarely meet, are constantly tailing each other just for a glimpse of the others beauty, but they almost always miss each other. But once in a long while, they do catch up, and they kiss. If only for a few seconds they are happier and the whole world will stare in awe of their eclipses. Each story is different but all of them are the same. As if some  thread of fantasy connects each one because the way the moon loved the sun was legendary. I’m absolutely in love with the moon and everything else that is tragically unreachable.

When I’m tired and can’t sleep, I will always return to the one thing that won’t be sleeping either. I will have late night conversations with the Moon. He tells me about the sun and sometimes if it hurts less, I’ll tell him about you.

“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls. ” ~ George Carlin

( Tired Alice.)

 

Am I Invisible to you?

Do you ever feel physically sick thinking the night before about having to return to school after a long weekend? I do. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the morning and would literally rather have to endure anything in place of having to walk into that godforsaken building. (Which we will call “Wonderland high” for privacy purposes.) On the bad days I’d rather face all of my worst fears at once than even step place in Wonderland High. On the good days, well things aren’t much better. I’d still find myself scheming to run the thermometer under a hot tap or make myself sick so I don’t have to face my fellow peers. “But why?” I can almost hear you asking through the dim screen of my laptop. Well this is one of the most difficult questions that someone could possibly ask me. I can only try my best to answer without knowing the full extent of the answer myself.

I’ll explain to you the layout of my day, so maybe I can give you some insight into my day to day life. I entered Wonderland high at exactly 7:55, the bell rang a few minutes earlier so people are scrambling to get to class on time. I get barely three steps into the door before a senior walks into me head on knocking all of my binders and books to the floor and tripping me. He doesn’t apologize, acknowledge me at all, he doesn’t even look at me as if I was to ugly for him to bother looking at. People are still swarming the hallways as I attempt to ignore the bloody scrape on my elbow and pick up my stuff that now litters the hallway floor, and not one person out of the nearly hundred people that passed me offered to help. I’m not even sure most of them knew I was standing there, they just formed a path around me and kept pushing past me. In my first four classes I didn’t speak to anyone and kept to myself because I had learned from previous experiences  to keep my head down and stay quite unless a teacher asks me a question. Besides I don’t talk much, I tell myself it’s because I’m just better at listening.

Lunch time is one of the few times I feel like I can actually be myself or at least I can be the better parts of myself and save the awkward, stranger parts for when I’m alone and no one can see how weird I really am. I have a small group of friends who sit at one lunch table together so it is easy to find them but on days like today and the crazy, dangerous, chaos of the cafeteria is to much for me to handle, I will travel outside to the courtyard with a friend instead. Today I sat outside on a bench underneath a tree with my incredibly shy friend who we will call ‘Annie’, we talk a bit about our spring break and it was actually quite pleasant. For a moment anyways and then the unpleasantries start up taking the form of raining fruit. It wasn’t actually raining fruit obviously but some group of boys thought it would be funny to throw fruit around and watch it smash against the building. First a carton of apple juice spraying us from head to toes soaking our clothes with sticky sweet liquid, next an apple hits the back of my shoulder, and lastly a banana exploded against the pavement to our right covering our pants and shoes.

The funny thing is when I felt the heat of embarrassment fill my cheeks with pink and the sickness of humiliation make my stomach clench, I was used to it. I am used to it, and when Annie and I locked eyes we both knew that we weren’t going to say anything and maybe that was what made it so much worse. Those boys who threw the fruit and watched it hit us, they didn’t apologize, they didn’t even laugh that much. It was like we weren’t even worth their time at all, and Annie and I, we didn’t say anything to them. Didn’t yell at them for disrespecting us, hell we couldn’t even bring ourselves to look at them as we walked past to go clean ourselves up. We gave them what they wanted and that’s what is so sick about it. They wanted to pretend we are invisible and we allowed ourselves to be. I allowed myself to be because I am weak and afraid.

It would be too easy to say that I feel Invisible. Instead I feel painfully visible but entirely ignored. It took me about halfway into eight grade year to realize that was how I was feeling and almost annoyingly to long to understand why. My friends and I are the ghosts that haunt the halls of high school just like many others before us. The living can’t see us or just choose not to because it would be easier than having to deal with a haunting. We are the kids who slip through the cracks unnoticed, so under the radar that we’re not even sure if the radar still exists. The living won’t bring themselves down to our measly level unless they need something from us, can’t even remember my name when asking for a pencil or a piece of paper. Of course I give them their requested pencil or piece of paper along with another shred of dignity that I have left, because I know in my heart that I am to weak to stand up to them. To ask them just once, Why? Why do you ignore me?

I feel like my silence is a curse but a kind of superpower, I notice everyone and everything around me. From the most beautiful to tragic things that I wish I hadn’t seen in the first place but no one ever notices me, us, the kids in the dark.

Most days I’m okay with being left alone, that’s not it at all, in fact its easier that way for me to hold myself together. But when people don’t notice me at all, it hurts. And I know it’s my own fault for becoming invisible and isolating myself from everyone because I was to afraid of rejection. But just once I want a strange to help me up when I fall instead of walking around me, to say hello to me, hold a door open for me, ask to be my partner in class, pick me first for teams, say bless you when I sneeze, simply acknowledge my existence and pull me from the cemetery of the dead and back into the grasp of the living.

If I could say one thing to the world and they would listen it would be this : I’m quite but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot to say. I’m still listening to the ghosts that haunt my halls, some of them are even my friends, I listen to the dead because I am among them, buried six feet deep under silence. I’m listening to you.

Are you listening to me?

“But most days, I wander around feeling invisible. Like I’m a speck of dust floating in the air that can only be seen when a shaft of light hits it.” ~Sonya Sones

(Invisible Alice.)

Anatomy of a Teenager.

A·nat·o·my
noun
noun: anatomy; noun: anat.
  1. 1.
    the branch of science concerned with the bodily structure of humans, animals, and other living organisms, especially as revealed by dissection and the separation of parts.
    • the bodily structure of an organism.
  2. 2.
    a study of the structure or internal workings of something.
    “Machiavelli’s anatomy of the art of war”
     

     

    What comes to mind when you think of high school and teenagers? Is it a loud high school cafeteria separated by each group or cliché? Is it loud, confident, cocky teens having wild party’s, drinking beer and smoking pot? Now I’m not going to tell you that all teens are not like that because yes some are, but I think society’s outlook on teenagers have been spun by some fantasy. All of those movies that I used to watch as a kid always spun up this idea that my teenage years would make me feel invincible, confident, wild and youthful. But I’ve found that despite teenagers being so vastly different that we all have something in common with each other. Let me tell you about the Anatomy of a teenager. I’ll give you a hint; Fear.

    Did you know that an estimated 2.8 million adolescents suffer from depression, anxiety and insecurity?

    Another twist of that soda bottle but something important about me is that I am and for as long as I can remember have been an observer. I’m quite and a lot of the time I find myself watching the world pass by around me instead of actually engaging in it. This is how I’ve come to my hypothesis that everyone is afraid. I’ve seen Cheerleaders have panic attacks in the hidden corners of rarely visited restrooms. I’ve seen Jocks flinch because their friends make a joke about sexuality that hits a little to close to home. I’ve seen the class clown break down in tears because having people not laugh with him but at him had become to much to handle. I’ve seen the bullies glance at each other afraid that if they let their angry façade slip they might be the next to get their teeth kicked in. I’ve seen the shy girl who sits behind me in algebra run out of class because the teacher called her up to the board to answer a question because she was terrified she’d get it wrong. I’ve seen my own friends put on such a brave face when faced with teasing and name-calling in the halls before slowly shaking apart in the back of class when nobody is looking.

    I think teenagers are so afraid because we’ve yet to find our definite place in the world. Sometimes it feels like we are floating, waiting for someone else to tell us how we are supposed to fit in. We’re scared that we’ll be picked last like when we line up for the two team captains to choose our sides and maybe this time we won’t be picked at all. We’ll just stand there forever, shaking and terrified that nothing will ever happen to us.

    I think we are afraid because sometimes we feel like there’s something wrong with us; like we’re freaks of nature who were supposed to be erased from existence before we even got a chance to exist, but something in the fabric of the universe malfunctioned and the wrong people were erased instead. The people who were erased were the smarter, more beautiful versions of ourselves, the perfect versions and we are only accidents, mistakes. We feel like idiots who can’t do anything right, who are destined to be destroyed by our own moronic thoughts, and whose hands are covered with the blood of all our slaughtered dreams and our shoulders weighed down by the guilt and fear that we will mess up again.

    But another thing about teenagers that you probably already knew, we are complicated beings. At other times, it doesn’t feel like the universe screwed up. Other times, it feels like the blurry hopes we seek through alcoholic goggles match up with the solid darkness or our realities and they look just right. Like a mirage of our failures mixed with the beauty of our spur of the moment happiness. It looks like everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Suddenly if only for a while, life doesn’t seem so bad anymore. Suddenly it looks and feels so… not perfect but tragically flawed in the best way possible.

    From the most confident teen to the most suicidal, depressed, and terrified one we are all scared of something. Some of us just hide it better than others.

    “Despite everyone always saying that the youth are invincible, confident and cocky, the secret is we never were… We are the ones who are afraid.”~ David Levithan.

    ( Fearful Alice)

I am a bottle of soda.

I am a high school girl and I feel hopeless. I am 15 years old and wait- before you click away because you believe this is merely some decoy for pity or some self-depreciating teen seeking attention, hear me out. I feel different, is difference a good thing? I’ve always thought difference was, but now I’m not so sure. I think this time difference is killing me.

I am a high school girl yet I feel like I should be more. My friends are happy with never looking farther than the present, experiencing a sort of Folie à deux.  I’m different, the present is a word I can barely understand because the future is where I am. I’m stuck in a state of dysphoria, unhappy with where I am but scared for the future. I am 15 but I feel older, scared,  uncertain for the future. I feel like I’m wasting my life on school, I feel like I’ve learned enough but maybe I’ve learned nothing at all.

I have a contradicting mind, a mind of fire and water. They don’t mix do they? Water puts out the fire, and fire just makes the water boil. I want to be a writer but I can’t put my emotions into words. I’m afraid of the dark but I love the mystery of night. I keep my friends from self-harming but sometimes I do it myself. I tell everyone to keep trying when I just want to stop.

I am fighting my way through life without even knowing what I’m fighting for. I am a soda bottle, my emotions the soda. You shake it up, and suddenly it has become dangerous. You have a choice, open it up all at once and watch it explode or open it slowly and twist by twist let the fizz pour out and try your hardest to contain the mess. I am that soda bottle,  this is the first twist, I’m going to open myself up twist by twist,post by post so I can explain to you the feelings of a high school girl, lost and confused trying her best to find herself. I am not going to glorify these stories or change things so I can pretend things were easy because  they are not. I am a lost girl.

Those words used to mean something different to me. I always imagined I’d be saying them when Peter Pan finally stopped by my window and whisked me off to neverland. It kills me to say that Peter Pan is not real and I will never be a ‘lost girl’ at least not in that sense. I will only ever be Alice, lost in wonderland, stumbling her way through a world full of monsters and creeps.  I am just another Alice who’s trying to find her way out of her head and trying to find her way in a wonderland that is not a lie and actually full of wonder. But I think maybe, I will be okay with that if I accept it early on. Wish me luck, I believe I am going to need it.

“I’m not crazy. My reality is just different from yours.” ~Cheshire Cat.

(I shall remain anonymous under the name Alice)