Twilight, Preface and Chapter 1

Before we begin, I must say that I already know what happens.  I have read several reviews and recaps, and I have read this book once before.  This does not mean that it is any less torturous.

You guys know that I really don’t want to do this, right?  Okay, good.  Anyway, let’s go.

PREFACE

You know what I really hate?

I hate it when adults use the Oh-I-know-what-you're-going-through-don't-think-I-don't-I-was-young-once-too thing.  Yes, I understand that my mother and my aunt were, at one point, seventeen.  Yes, I understand that my aunt liked science fiction shows and pulling goofy pranks and just being crazy, just like I do.  Yes, I understand that my mother had to deal with a high-maintenance older sister, was very shy, and was clinically depressed, just like me.  Yes, I understand that they had hormones coursing through their veins like white blood cells.  Yes, I get that they were probably just as randy as me, though they'll never admit it.

But they were not, are not, and never will be me.

Yeah, Mom, I get it.  You had two friends all through grade school.  You had to deal with Auntie being selfish and totally self-centered.  You had three younger siblings.  You never wanted to disappoint your parents.  You know how hard it can be.


Yeah, Auntie, I get it.  You were boy-crazy, desperately "in love" with William Shatner and John Wayne and all.  You liked being crazy and annoying the nuns.  You didn't like being tied to the house.  You couldn't wait to leave.  You know how hard it can be.

Tell me, though.  Do you know what it's like to be bi, and not be able to tell your parents?  Do you know what it's like to take care of an eight-year-old Autistic kid who's not even yours?  Do you know what it's like to want so desperately to not be judged by the standard?  Do you know what it's like to have the voices of stories swimming in your head, desperate to be let out?  Do you know what it's like to lose every single friend you have at a time when you need them the most?  Do you know what it's like to have your mind wander during school because of your ADHD, only to fall into crushing self-doubt brought on by your depression about things having to do with your learning disorder?  Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up in this age of technology, with the world at your fingertips, when the only world you know is populated by people who either hate you or don't care about you?

I understand that we're pretty damn similar.  I understand that we have some of the same issues.  I get it; you know what it's like to be a teenager, you've "been around the block."  You don't know what it's like to be me, with my combination of traits from your family and traits from Dad's family and things that are all my own.  You haven't ever been me.

So stop telling me that you know exactly what I'm going through, or that you know for sure that one day I'll stop being so crazy by choice, and be fine with it, when you cannot possibly know.  Our experiences aren't the same.  Our personalities aren't the same.  We aren't the same. 

Stop insulting me by saying that you know how I feel.

It's Official, Kids.

I'm a masochist.  Why? you may ask.  Well, I'll tell you what I have decided to start.  What I have promised to do.

I promised my best friend that, once I finish One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which I'm reading for school, I would begin to read and review the Twilight books.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

...

...

...

We good?  Everyone comprehend?  Okay.

I'll be reading two chapters a day, and posting my notes, starting this weekend.  The paper for Cuckoo's Nest is due Thursday, and I figure I should just finish out the week in quiet, blissful denial, so the first post will probably be Sunday.

Are you ready for this?  I'm not.  Welcome to Hell, kids, welcome to Hell.

Subject Matter: My Self-Esteem

I honestly think that my friends have no idea how truly high-maintenance I am.  Maybe they're just dense.  Maybe I don't let it show.  I don't know.  What I do know is that, as someone whose self-esteem could fit inside a quark, I need almost constant reassurance that, yes, I am a good singer and a good actress and a good writer and a good poet and smart and pretty.

Because, yes, I've heard it all before.  Yes, sometimes I start to believe it.  But you know what happens then?  A small voice pipes up inside me, and it says, "Who are you to be so conceited?  What have you done that you're justified in feeling important?  What could possibly make you think that people like what you do, or even care?  How is what you've done good enough to be shown to people?  How is your voice good enough to be heard?"

In the end, what that little voice says boils down to is, "No one cares.  You're not important or special enough.  Shut up and let the better people go."

I'm getting better grades than my big brothers did at my age.  I talk about it a lot.  I laugh that since I have a higher GPA and ACT score than my oldest brother, I'll get into the college he got rejected from, and then maybe I can rub it in his face that I did something better than him.  My parents get really disapproving and say that isn't Christian.

Ask me if I give a fuck, Mom and Dad.  Ask me if I care that it's technically mean, when I know Matt'll laugh and congratulate me.

"But who says you have the right?" that little voice whispers.  It's starting to sound a lot like Mom.  Or maybe Dad.  "Why do you think that, just because, by some fluke, you got a higher ACT score than the boys, you're smarter than them?  Maybe they weren't well rested.  Maybe they ran out of time and had to start guessing.  Don't rub it in his face that you're smarter than him, because it isn't true."

Just this weekend, Neenie and I both had plays.  Two different plays, two different places, the same days, the same times.  Mom went to Neenie's opening night.  Grandma and Grandpa went to Neenie's last show.  No one came to my opening night.  No one but Mom, Dad, and Neenie came to any of my shows.

When she said that only Grandma and Grandpa came, Neenie added that no one loved her.  I shot back that none of our extended family came to my shows, and no one came to opening night.

"So what?" the little voice whispers.  It definitely sounds like Mom and Dad together now.  "It's not like you're as important as her.  It's not like anyone cares.  You had three lines.  She had two whole songs  to herself.  You're lucky they showed up at all.  Be quiet and be grateful."

Sometimes I wish that I never had to come home.  Sometimes I wish I could go live with Smitty or Marissa or Stefanie, someone who loves me and tells me that they love me and assures me that I'm special and good enough and perfect the way I am.  Then the voice whispers, "You don't deserve that.  You don't deserve to be told that, even if everyone knows it's a lie.  You need to feel that you're worthless."

And that's when I get fed up with it.  That's when I call the voice out on it's bullshit, tell it to shut the fuck up, I don't care if I don't deserve it, I don't care if it's a lie, I want to feel special and loved and good enough, I don't give a rat's ass what my family says or thinks, and by God, I'm going to listen to my friends when they say I'm awesome and cool and pretty and smart and good enough.

But then no one says it.

A Conversation with Myself (I'm Not Crazy, I Swear)

Hey there.

Hey, kiddo.  How's things?

Not too good at the moment, I'm afraid.


What's up?

I'm having trouble with some of my...worse instincts.

That again, sweetie?  But you've been doing so well!

Yeah, well, I saw the razor in the tub, and it took a long time to convince myself not to touch it.

You didn't, then?

No, I stayed safe.

I'm proud of you, sweetie.  Wanna talk about what happened?

I s'pose.  D'you have any idea how hard it is to try to explain to your parents why you're a part of GSA without coming out and admitting that you're gay?

I can imagine that it would be difficult.

Try nearly impossible.  I mean, how am I supposed to make up reasons that sound intelligent when I can't words in the first place?  At least Mom took pity on me and gave me some questions to answer.  I mean, shouldn't they know by now, seventeen and a half years in, that I have trouble with satisfactorily answering vague questions?  Haven't they seen my utter frustration enough to know that I need more specific parameters for what they want to hear?  Saying that does kinda seem like I'm tailoring my answer to them.     Maybe that's true.  That's probably true, actually.  But maybe instead I should say "what they want to know".  It sounds more accurate.

And you wanted to...?

Well, I've been dealing with stupid all day, and I'm pretty fed up with it.  And Mom was preaching about how we're supposed to just accept the stupid and the logic-less and move on.  Obviously, seventeen and a half years haven't been enough to learn that I thrive in order, when everything is in its correct place, and things make sense. I mean, I sometimes have to force things into order just to stay sane.  It's all that practice that makes me so good at retconning.

At least you can always hide in your room.

Yeah, but that comes with problems of its own.  Mom always nags at me when I spend too much time up there.  And Dad gets pissed off when I'm in my room and listening to music and can't hear him calling.

But he knows that it helps, doesn't he?

You'd think.  But I tell them so many things that help, and it gets better for a little while, but then... they forget or something and it goes back to the way it was.

Try telling them again.

Then I feel like I'm nagging.

Sometimes you have to.  You know that.

Doesn't stop them from yelling at me...

I know.

Maybe I should just live in my bedroom from now on.

That'd be impractical.  You have to eat and go to school.  I'm sure you can wait until next August.

Yeah, I probably can.  Maybe I'll whine a lot more, so that I don't self-destruct, but I'll get through.

If you tell your friends, I doubt they'll begrudge you weekly whining sessions.

Yeah, they're awesome like that.  Hey, thanks for listening.

It's what I'm here for.



Have you ever had a conversation with yourself like this?  You're not crazy.  Well, if you are, I am, too, but at least we're sane enough to admit it, right?  In any case, I often find it helpful to talk to myself, because I know the solution to a problem, and I know I know it, but I just can't figure it out.  The back and forth of conversation always helps.  Try it sometime, why don't you?

Rain

Rain.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Some people hate it, complain about the inconveniences it causes, the dates it ruins, rage against the dark sky.  Some people are afraid, when the lightning flashes and the thunder crashes, and they dive under their covers or put pillows over their heads.

Some people like the rain, blessing the water that helps their plants grow, that makes their grass green.  Some people love it, for the drinking water it brings, for the end of the raging thirst, for the hope that maybe, this time around, things will be better.

I?  I find pure and simple happiness in rain.  When it’s warm, I dance and laugh as it falls, finding energy and joy in the insanity of what I am doing.  At night, I’ll sit on my desk, near my window, watching the rain fall, searching out streaks of lightning, waiting for the reassuring rumble of thunder.  In a world of surprises and things gone wrong, rain is dependable.  It will always come, eventually, and when it brings the thunder and lightning, they are always in the right order, and that order will never change.

When the storm is over, but the clouds are still dark, if the sun is setting and can be seen on the western horizon, the beauty of the sun’s dying light cast on the underbelly of the black clouds is breathtaking, more beautiful than the sunrise, more beautiful than a rainbow.  The purple-black clouds themselves are lovely, a wondrous mix of anger and beauty.

And in its nature, rain is wonderful.  When it hits the earth, it can provide a much-needed drink for plants, create a bath for critters, or simply make a puddle for a child to splash in.  When it hits me, wets my hair, slides across my skin, and soaks my clothes, as it drips off, I can almost see all the grime, all the pain of life, all my mistakes, and everything else that makes me imperfect wash away, leave me clean and pure.  As it hits the ground, no longer clear, but black from my dirt, I can almost hear it whisper, “Here’s a fresh start; use it, try again, keep trying, and you will win.”

Yes, some people are afraid of rain, some hate it, some like it, some love it.  I thank God daily for the rain, and pray that He sends more soon.  If it can clean me of my mistakes and pain, maybe, one day, it can clean the world.

Summer Insomnia

Silence save for the cicadas outside.

Darkness save for glow of my computer screen.

Solitude save for the Internet.

What little coldness that can be provided by the AC.

My mind runs rampant with the thoughts of today.  Wordless ideas and idea-less words flit through my brain, trying to match up together.  Stories come to mind and write themselves in seconds, faster than I could ever type out.  They settle for the recognition they get from me, realizing that they are too quick for me to catch, too complicated for me to write, the voiceless thoughts in my head that are shunted to the side, the ones that are never spoken of.

The ache in my knee is forgotten.  My back cramps from my awkward position, but I don't care.  Thoughts of tomorrow, of the eight o'clock wake-up call, of the chores and the appointments, of taking my meds and remembering to get my flash drive, do not matter to me.  What matters is the fleshless lives I hold inside me.  What matters is the stories clammering to be told.  What matters is sorting through them, picking the right ones out, telling what needs to be told, leaving the others behind in the dark.

I cannot apologize to them enough.  I cannot say anything to these thoughts that makes staying in a dark closet any more bearable.  I can promise to come back, but the older occupants of the closet know that the only time I return, it is to add to their number, not to take anything away.

The Closet in my head is a sad place.  It is dark and dank.  The floor around it is covered in dust, revealing a place where few wish to tread, but dust tracked with footprints, signifying the need to go there.  The Closet is a place where Voiced Ideas never wish to go.  They know all too well that it could have been them in there, it could have been the lying in the dust, forgotten and unused, but they don't want to think about it.

Every so often, though, one of them will.  The idea will consciously acknowledge what has become of its kin, and will fall into a depressive funk.  Nothing will come out of that idea for days, perhaps even months.  At times, its mood will be picked up by the rest--or just several others--of the Voiced Ideas.  They will mourn for the Voiceless, they will refuse to offer up anything new, and they will mope and sulk for the state of things.

Now and again, a Voiceless Idea will sneak from the closet.  It will come again to me, and present itself in a different way.  "Look at me," it will say.  "I have a Voice.  I am not Prose, dear Writer, but Poetry.  Write one page about me; give me a moment to speak.  I will not let you down.  Surely you have time for a page of rhyming verse."

So often, too, these Ideas come through.  They are the Recycled, the Voiceless given a Voice, and they sing loud and strong, reminders that there will always be hope, whatever their message is.

And I sit here, hunched over a computer, in my semi-Silence, semi-Darkness, semi-Solitude, and somewhat-Cold, having said a sad no to another idea, but asking it to think, to find a different side of itself to show me.

I figure, as I slip under my blanket and head towards dreams, if I can present myself to the world in a different light than before, why can't my Ideas?

Subject Matter: School (and Money)

So I'm going to start school in roughly a month.  High school, for anyone who cares.  My senior year.  Huzzah.  Anyway, it's a month to school, and we still haven't gotten our schedules.  Obviously, my school sucks.

A more pressing matter is my sports physical.  I haven't had that (come to think of it, I don't even know if I'm registered yet. Note to self: ask Mom), and the season starts on the 10th of August.  Yeah...

(Completely unrelated note to self: ask Mom about the Sarah Jane coat.  Nag, if need be.)

So!  Senior year of an all-honors student with a 5.04 GPA and a ACT score of 34.  Yes, I'm bragging.  No, I will not shut up.  I'm proud of being smart, and I'm in one of my rare moods where I'm accepting being smart.

Anyway, all-honors student.  Well, not so much anymore, but really, that's by choice.  I'm taking nice, easy classes this year, mostly ones that will give little to no homework on a daily basis.  What shall I do with all the extra time?  Well, aside from kicking some ass on the swim team, my sport of choice, I will be finding and applying for craptons of scholarships.  My goal to to go to a nice, small, private college, and not pay a penny for tuition, room and board, and hopefully not even textbooks!

If my evil plot succeeds, and I don't have to use any of my college savings money on actual college, I'll use it on furniture, appliances (probably just a microwave and maybe an electric tea kettle.  I already have a TV (thanks, big brother!)) new clothes, towels, dishes, Triscuits, etc.  Any leftovers will probably go towards a game system or two (DS up first, then a Wii or GameCube) and games for the systems.

Then there's the stuff I'll get for my graduation, and probably my birthday, since that's in April.  I mean, seriously siriusly, my uncle/godfather gave sixty bucks for my seventeenth!  He's probably gonna lay out, like two hundred for the graduation!  And my dad's youngest brother always gives us (as in, me and my siblings) plenty.  That's all going towards a kick-ass laptop, so that I can do some legit gaming.  My current computer, a Dell mini10, is so small, I need an external disc drive.  Memory I'm not too worried about, since I have a 1 teraByte external hardrive, so I can keep all sorts of random stuff (like audio books, TV shows, and movies) on there and not clutter up my computer.

Anyway, enough money thoughts!  Back to school.

So the hardest class I signed up for is AP European History.  I tried to the summer homework and failed miserably.  Hopefully, since my counselor likes me, and I wound up essentially in Special Ed at the end of last year, I'll be able to get my ass out of that class.  I got placed in the assistant principal's ACT prep group last year, too, and endeared myself to her, so I've got pull all over the place.

Well, I'll end this now, since it probably wasn't all that interesting anyway, and I have a story to write.  Maybe sometime soon I'll write about what I'm going to do in college.

A Privileged Dip into the Mind of a Teenager

So I made a mistake earlier today, and the person who the mistake affected asked me, "What were you thinking?"

I shrugged half-heartedly, and said, "I wasn't thinking."

But, my dear readers, this was a lie.

Do you want to know what I was thinking?  Well, even if you don't, I'm gonna tell you anyway.

Remus
Tonks
Severus
Fred
Colin
Moody
Hedwig
Sirius
DumbledoreDammit, Rowling!

So now that I've managed to work up the stones to actually tell Krysta, how the everliving fuck am I going to do it?


What, exactly, is wrong with my knee?


Am I going to have enough money to go to TARDISCon?


What am I going to get Anne for her graduation?


What am I going to get Grace for her birthday?


How am I supposed to help Kayla when the answer she's looking for is one I'd kill to know myself?


I don't think I can manage AP Euro this year.  How can I get out of it?


My laundry needs doing.


I need to call Mrs. Garcia about babysitting the kids.


I need to call Dad about the weed whacker.


I need food.

My head hurts.  Am I getting another migraine?  I'm nauseous, too.  I think I might be.  Damn.  So, with the migraine, including nausea, should I eat?  What if the reason I have a headache is that I haven't eaten since nine this morning?


To watch, or not to watch?


Also, why am I misquoting Shakespeare again?


When should Zeckra and Duren's relationship move past "just friends"?  How do I make Gethin less one-dimensional?  I mean, I don't want to pull a Meyer and be all "He's evil because I say he is so there."  I need to be more Jacques-like and actually show that he's one vicious bastard.  Also, when the hell will Hazel start acting like a normal person?  And when does Zeckra tell Duren and Mikal about her "evil plan" to influence Hazel's personality?  Who am I going to dedicate it to, anyway?  Christina?  Emily?  Mom?  Brian Jacques?  Dude, I don't even fucking know.


I'm a stitch away from making it, and a scar away from falling apart.  Why do these lyrics always seem to fit me way too closely?


It is okay to let your eyes wander, right?  Especially when you're not actually in a relationship?  I mean, it doesn't mean you're any less in love with the first person, yeah?  Or maybe I should be asking myself if this ridiculous crush is finally waning, 'cause sometimes I wish it were.


Did Dad make my appointment yet?  I really want to find out what's wrong with my knee.  I want it to heal, too, because I want to ride my skateboard.  Also, what about my sports physical?  I need one of those.  Swim starts in less than a month.


I should probably ask Abby and Stefanie if they need rides in August.  I mean, Stef's almost eighteen, and it's only, like, ten or fifteen minutes of driving.  Plus I obey all the other laws, so I shouldn't get pulled over.

So, sir, if you want to yell at me for what I did, go ahead.  If you think that that should be my highest priority, by all means, do so.  However, I have enough to worry about, and I really can't think about cutting your lawn in a goddamn straight line.  It's all cut, isn't it?  So fork over my money, and let me be on my merry way, with all my worries still intact.

People.  Jeez.

Subject Matter: Me

Because I have nothing better to do.  I'm seriously siriusly one of two people in this building right now. YAYZ.

So my job is pretty darn boring.  I do nothing but scanning and answering phones all day, and the scanner needs a break (it's old).  That's why I'm just sitting here.  I mean, if I had my flash drive, at least I could write or something while the scanner cools off, but no dice.

But, in the hopes of making this post a little more interesting, I'm going to tell you a little about myself, personality-wise, and then maybe make a couple interesting points.  If I remember.

Okay, first of all, a question:  Have you read the Harry Potter books/seen the movies?  If yes, skip the next paragraph; if no, do not skip it.

STOP.  YOU HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH THE CRIME OF NEVER READING HARRY POTTER.  YOU MUST DROP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO AND READ THEM.  IF YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME, WATCHING THE MOVIES IS ALSO ACCEPTABLE.  ONLY WHEN YOU KNOW WHAT GOES ON IN THAT WORLD MAY YOU RETURN TO THIS BLOG.  READY? SET? GO!

For those of you who have read the books (I'm going to leave out "seen the movies" from now on, because it gets annoying to type), you should all love Mrs. Weasley.  If you don't, I ask you to sit back and examine you life, your choices, and what might have gone wrong.  We good?  Okay then.

My point about Mrs. Weasley:  she is what is referred to as "everyone's Jewish mother" (warning: that's a TV Tropes link; if you decide to click it, bring a rope).  In my times of great boredom, I have gone wandering around teh Interwebz, looking for fun quizzes, and I have come up with plenty of Harry Potter personality tests.  Guess who I get every single time.  Have you been paying attention?  Then your answer should be Mrs. Weasley.

Truth be told, it fits.  At only seventeen, I am everyone's Jewish mother.  I bring my guy friends home and feed them.  I make sure my friends have done their homework.  I remind my best friend to eat.  I carry bandages, painkillers, antiseptic cream, and chocolate in my purse.  I teach, tutor, and guide.  I'm patient, and I listen to anyone and everyone with a problem.

Okay, interesting point time!  It ties in with what we were just talking about.  If you're here, you've obviously already read the Harry Potter books.  Have you read them a second time?  No?  Well, go ahead, then.  I'll wait.

Back?  Cool. So is your mind blown?  Seriously Siriusly.  J.K. Rowling is a genius.  Did you see those hints?  Did you get her subtleties?  Man, I wanna be just like her.  That's so awesome.  She seriously siriusly made my brain explode when I first reread The Philosopher's Stone after finishing Deathly Hallows.  I kid you not.  There was grey matter almost literally everywhere.

Also, I never get tired of that pun, and I promised to never spell the word correctly again.  Just so you know.

Back to personality!  When compared to an animal, I am a wolf, most likely pack alpha, though unwillingly.  (The thing about this one is that you can't just accept answers at face value; you must read descriptions and decide whether or not they fit you.)  I am loyal to friends and family, open and loving with those I know, but distrustful and aggressive towards outsiders and anyone who looks like they might harm my pack.  Though I prefer to stay in the background (shyness, you know), when I am placed in authority, as happens more often than not, I do well, and those who know me listen.

What else is there to say about me?  Not much, I think.  Not at this time, anyway.  I read and I write and I draw and I trace, I can write HTML coding and make animated movies, and I work part-time as a secretary.  I crack jokes and throw out playful insults that generally just make people laugh and occasionally tell me that I'm evil.

Interesting point #2:  Actually, it's more a warning.  Never give a hyperactive teenage insomniac something sugary/laced with caffine at two in the morning.  Unless, of course, you have a camera nearby and want to send something into America's Funniest Home Videos.  I really should have had a camera on me the other night.......

On YA Literature

Oh, hey!  This blog isn't just going to be moaning about my personal life! YAY!

On the other hand, I am going to have to bring some of it in here to make my point.  Anyway!  Moving on!

This post has to do with this Wall Street Journal article.  (Yes, it's from two days ago.  Sorry, Interwebz, but I've been working.  And, you know, getting money.)  I will take this time to admit that I did not read the whole thing.  I got outraged, and closed the tab.  It was rather like my reaction to reading New Moon the first time, except that I could only metaphorically throw this article at the wall.

For those of you who are too interested in what I have to say to read the actual article (haha, aren't I funny?), it deals with how bad YA books are and how they can contaminate the children and make them do terrible, awful things, like sex and drugs and cutting.  Thanks for your concern, but most of the druggies I know don't bloody read.  Yes, you read that correctly.  They do not pick up books, let alone read them.

Trust me.  These are kids who pride themselves on never reading anything, kids who refuse to even start reading school books in case them might actually like the books (oh, the horrors!) and then end up finishing them, only to discover, Oh bugger, their record is broken! 

And then there's sex.  Tell me, have you ever read Story of A Girl by Sara Zarr?  I'm in the middle of reading it, and it's fascinating.  It tells the story of a girl who was found having sex with a sixteen-year-old.  The girl was thirteen at the time.  The story commences about three years later, and shows exactly where Deanna's choice led her; her father cannot have a normal conversation with her; her mother tries so hard to make things seem normal; she has a reputation at school for being a slut, because she had sex with one guy.  If I had not already promised myself to my future husband (as the ring on my finger shows), this stark portrayal of the crap that can go down would have convinced me.

Now let's talk about cutting.  Everyone has five fingers on each hand, right?  Okay, let's not count the thumb.  If my arithmetic serves me well, that makes four, yes?  That's how many people in my life know exactly why I was out of school for more than two weeks back in January; my parents, and my two female best friends.  My male best friend does not know.  My little sister does not know.  My big brothers do not know.  My confidant-in-all-things-depression-wise does not know.  My friends have been convinced I had pnuemonia. 

The absolute truth?  I had been hospitalized for self-injury.  I spent two and a half weeks going through a program to deal with it.  I told everyone that it had been happening for a year.  This was a lie.  I had been cutting for more than two years at that point, but I'd be darned if I told anyone.  I'm not going to get into what started it; that's a story for another post.

There are two common categories for the reason people hurt themselves; A) they have so much emotional pain, they invoke physical pain to distract themselves (sort of like whacking something really hard so you have something other than your, say, headache to focus on), or B) what they're experiencing is a numbness so acute that they will do anything just to feel something.  I personally moved between the two.

Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Where is this kid going?  What does this have to do with YA books?"  I'm getting to that.

Now, for this length of time, I more than once thought about killing myself.  A lot of things kept me from it; the thought that doing so would be selfish, a promise I had made to my best friend to not hurt myself at all, but mostly, it was the escape I found in books.

One of my favorite series is Redwall, by the late Brian Jacques.  The paperback copies of his books are relatively compact; short, thin books (height- and width-wise, I mean) with an average of 300+ pages and rather small print, a single book will fit in hoodie pockets, cargo shorts, and nicely-sized purses, and multiple books fit easily in a backpack for car trips.  They are easy to take anywhere, is what I'm saying, and I did.

In the two+ years that I was hurting myself, I fought the impulse, when I had the strength, by reading, because it took away the pain.  The stories I read were beautifully painted, with scenery rich in detail and characters you cared about.  Anyone could get lost in these worlds, and that was exactly what I used them for.  When burning through the life of Martin the Warrior, my own life was gone, and all that mattered was his.  When turning the pages of Marlfox, the lives of Songbreeze and Donflor were far more pertinent than my own.  These books were not without tragedy; Brian Jacques was one of few authors I've experienced who knew the true value of character death, and how much better it makes a story when properly executed (pun not intended).

Though important, telling hurting teens that they are not alone is not the only thing that books can do.  YA fiction provides an escape from their own world that is much safer than drugs or alcohol; the only way you can get hurt a book is by getting hit over the head with it, and there's no such thing as a book overdose.

Since getting out of the hospital, I have not once hurt myself, and I've read more in the past five months than in the three years previous.  The pain and the problems aren't gone, not by a long shot, but my books give me the strength I need to fight, hope that one day it will all be better, and faith in a happy ending.

Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, and this isn't how anyone else views books.  Maybe I really am just the nutcase in the corner, hiding behind her shield of books.  Then again, there's a good chance that one of my best friends is lying on her bed right now, her nose in the YA book I gave her, reading about pirates and  mountains and warriors, and not thinking about her fight with her boyfriend, or the fact that she needs a job if she's going to go to college, or that she was pretty damn close to failing physics this year, or that she might not even graduate with me.  There's a good chance that another of my best friends is sitting on his couch, unconcerned with the fact that his parents can't send him to a good college, that he can't even take AP tests, that his little brother is once again being a prat, and that he can't hang out with his friends because he never has the money, because his mind is buried under human gods and troll gods and intricacies between kingdoms and godly wars.

So these books aren't for everyone.  So they don't save all the people who need saving.  At least they give it a damn good try, and grab everyone who is within reach.  Every single YA author that has gotten even one letter thanking them for saving a life, no matter how bad anyone says their book(s) is/are, should be given a hug, a handshake, or a clap on the back, and a resounding "Thank you" from the world, because saving just one life is something huge.

Subject matter: Hope

I don't know if I heard or read this somewhere, or if I just came up with it on my own, but a statement has been floating around my head for a while now: "It takes a special person to look to the future for light when the present and the past are so dark."

Does that mean I'm special, then?  I don't know.  What I do know is that hope has gotten me through some pretty dark times.  Maybe it was naive of me, but I remember months passing when I would lay down to bed at night and promise myself, "It will be better tomorrow.  Someone will notice, someone will ask, someone will let me cry.  Someone will see the cuts or the scars or the way I massage my barely-covered shoulders.  Someone will have the heart to give me what I don't have enough will left to ask for."  It was what I saw when I looked back that prompted me to say, "An old adage says that where there's life, there's hope, but it's been my experience that where there's hope, there's life," and credit it to my pen name and post in on the wall of my junior-year English classroom.

There was a time in my life where it took every ounce of willpower, coupled with thoughts of my little sisters and my parents and the fact that I could not worry them, to get out of bed every morning.  It took me an hour to talk myself into getting up, an hour to convince myself that I could make it one more day, that Joey would smile at me and take my hand, or Axel would be there with his "drug-money" to buy me a soda, or Smitty would have a bar of chocolate in her purse saved just for me.  It never got me down that none of that ever happened; I just told myself that it gave me a better chance for the next day.

Once I was officially out of bed and on my way to getting out the door and making the bus, my way to keep going was the fact that I didn't want to trouble my parents to have to drive me to school.  At school, breaking down would lead to being sent to the counselor's office, which would lead to the story coming out, which would lead to one of my parents coming to school, which meant inconvenience for them, and I didn't want that to happen, so nothing would happen at school.  Back at home, head to my room, lock the door, watch Buffy or Doctor Who or Sherlock, or read something, and get lost in a world that doesn't exist.  Then it would be dinner and chores and sleep and do it all again tomorrow, still while constantly thinking, "It'll get better tomorrow.  It'll get better tomorrow."

So if it takes a special person to do that, then I suppose I am special.  To quote my (marvelous) junior high social studies teacher, "There's more than one definition of the word 'special,' Dillon."

All At Once--My thoughts on a relatively popular song

So I was mowing my neighbor's lawn earlier today, and one of my less-listened-to songs came on.  "All At Once" by The Fray.  Have you ever heard it?  If you haven't, a lyric video is here.

Anyway, this song, which I've had on my iPod for a long time, suddenly means a bit more to me.  See, I don't admit this to everyone, but with the certain anonimity that goes with blogging and the fact that I haven't told anyone about this, I feel okay sharing.  I'm bisexual, and I'm in love with my female best friend.  My oldest best friend.  The girl who has admitted to being my soul mate, because we are just similar enough for it to awesome, and just different enough to fill in each other's shortcomings.

Now, I'm pretty sure that she knows.  Either that, or she's really fricking dense.  Anyway, so there was some fuckwittery going on earlier this month, having to do with a thirteen-year-old I met at a hospital and my best friend getting herself drunk without telling me (not that I'd want to get drunk with her; it'd be embarrassing for both of us, it's just what went on in the conversation we had while she was drunk).

Anyway, long story short (seriously, the whole took, like, a week to play out), she told me that she might love me in "more than a best friend way", but she was too scared to really look at her feelings and that I was a lot like her ex (which I'm not, by the way, he's rude and creepy and shit) and that it would be better if we just ignored it.

Now, it's necessary to know at this point that I've been living with the fact that I'm in love with her and she's never going to love me back the same way for about two years now.  Just think about it; you settle yourself to the fact that what you really want is never going to happen, then you find out that is could happen, and the only reason it's not happening is because the other person is too much of a fucking coward to figure out if it's even possible.

It's been really hard lately, talking to her and trying to pretend that everything's okay, but I have no intention, right now, anyway, of letting her go, because I've spent a few months without her in the past, and I don't ever want to go through that again.  This song, All At Once, tells the story of someone who has something special at home, but for some reason doesn't think it's enough, and goes out in search of perfection.  The line near the end, "Perfection will not come," shows how futile this person's search is, because what he/she is looking for cannot be found.

Another of the lines, "She won't keep on waiting/For you without a doubt/Much longer for you to sort it out," says that if this person's search takes too long, his/her girl will eventually give up on him/her.  In the end, this person could end up totally alone, because he/she pushed away what he/she had, and couldn't find what he/she was looking for, because it can't be found.

Now, to apply this to my life, my best friend doesn't have to worry.  I will never leave her.  But the fact that she is off searching for something that's right in front of her face makes me sad, and the fact that she refuses to recognize what's right in front of her face hurts like Hell.

Maybe one day I'll get over this.  Maybe I'll stop loving her so much.  Maybe I'll keep loving her, but forgive how much she hurt me.  Maybe one day I'll be able to forget.  Maybe I'll move on.  Maybe I'll fall in love with someone I actually have a chance with.  Maybe I'll be able to just stop thinking about it one day.

I don't know what the future brings, but I do know that for now, I'll nurse a secret heartache once more, and I'll cry every now and then, and I'll try not to get green with envy the next time she has a boyfriend.  I'll pretend to her and to my family and most of my friends that everything's okay, and pray that one day that I won't have to pretend anymore.