When we are small, we are fearless. The world isn’t truly scary until we understand the dangers that are around us, the decisions that could make or break us, the judgement of the people and society we live in, or the crumbling world we never asked to be born into in the first place.

When we are little, we laugh in the face of danger. We jump off of the trampoline and try to do a front flip onto the hard ground below us, even knowing the elastic surface would make for a much softer landing. We touch the stove top when the black surface is bright red and the heat is cinching your palms before there is even any contact with your skin. We run into the danger. We face scary things first hand, without even realizing how dangerous or terrifying they really are.

When we are little, we treat our skin, although new and made from glass, as if it were built of stone. Falling off of the monkey bars on the playground never calls for tears, we brush the mulch off of the backs of our shirts, put bandaids on our freshly scraped and bloodied knees, and head back to the first bar. Over and over again, until we hit the ground that one time that shatters a bone and every bit of ever wanting to get on the monkey bars again.

As we grow, the world around us changes. Life doesn’t feel the way it did when we played on playgrounds and jumped in and out of the squares on patterned floors. The days grow longer and nights never last long enough. Waking up never feels the same. Your eyes mature and see the world in the sense that it truly is. The darkness that surrounds the brains of smiling people. The colors radiating off of the skin of happy looking people hurting on the inside. 

You don’t go near the playgrounds anymore.

The dangers of evil people doing evil things overwhelms any desire to spend time in a place other than the comfort of your own bed, wrapped in the warmth of blankets and hidden from the outside. The world shows no mercy for little boys and girls growing into men and women.

The days aren’t for fun anymore. School is required. So you wake up and you drive 30 minutes away to sit in the same building you’ve sat in for 4 years. You go from classroom to classroom, assigned to 7 individual seats surrounded by the same people you have been surrounded by since middle school, which honestly shouldn’t be so bad. Aren’t people who are around each other so much supposed to know each other enough to be friends? Or maybe at least be able to be kind to one another.

The teachers tell you it’s a bad case of “senioritis,” and honestly, maybe it is the worst case any senior has ever been through but it doesn’t feel like a fake self diagnosed disease. It just feels like sadness. It feels like boredom and repetition. The good around you is swallowed by all of the numbness that each day brings you. 

We used to smile so effortlessly. Little things made us happy and the negativity of the world never made a home in our head the way it does now, wrapped in warm blankets and showing no intention of ever leaving.

What changed? 

I guess that is the question I’m really trying to answer, not just for myself, but for all of the people that feel the numbness that won’t stop. The busy bustle of each day is muffled by the fact that it was the same busyness as the day before and the same as it will be tomorrow. Maybe nothing has changed and that is the real problem. 

Something needs to change.

Maybe jumping from a plane is the excitement some people need to make them feel alive again. Pulling the string to open the parachute before hitting the ground making them feel as though they are in control of their lives again. Some people are baptised and rebirthed. Faith guiding them through the nothingness that they feel and giving them a new and glorious look at the world around them. 

I don’t know what I need to make me feel alive again.

What if you’re too afraid to take any risk? And what if you don’t even understand what religion is or where to even start?

Church has always been a very confusing place for me. As a child, little bible classes every Sunday morning gave me friends to talk to and games to play about Jesus, but what did I really learn about the lessons of the bible? Nothing. So I stopped going. Where would I be if I kept learning about the bible and matured with the teachings of a higher being as an ongoing part of my life? Would my life be more fulfilled? Even when I tried going back and being a part of it all, I was greeted with confusion and misunderstanding of the “Holy Word.” Maybe religion just isn’t for me. Who is it for?

It isn’t fun being a little ball of stress and sadness. My dad always told me “it’s hard work to be happy. It’s easy to put on a frown and allow it to find shelter on your lips, but a smile. That is a stubborn feeling.” And he was right. It is hard work to smile. I don’t purposely walk around wearing a frown. I guess it is just permanently there at this point. Etched into my face. A scar among many others.

Do you remember the last time you truly laughed? Do you ever wish you remembered what the feeling of laughing so hard your stomach felt like it was in a ball? Screaming that it hurts and grabbing at your shirt in hopes that the pain will stop. You miss feelings like that after a while. 

Why do I write so sad? How do I write so sad?

I honestly don’t know. Which really is the truth. You would think with the way I feel, my life would be a living hell, but I promise it’s not. At home, my family eats warm meals together under a big roof and we talk about our days. We love each other. I have a job, making decent hours and pay. My boyfriend is a Marine and I have never loved a person the way I love him. What reason do I have to feel the way I do? I wish I could say. I wish I could pinpoint a direct reason as to why I even thought I needed to write this in the first place. It doesn’t even make sense. Jumbled up thoughts typed on a screen. Why do I even bother?

The sadness and nothingness, jumbling to the happiness and laughter. This is a very long low. I’m hoping the high is better than ever. Maybe that sounds bad. Maybe it seems like I’m not trying to help myself.

I’m afraid.

That sounds dumb. Let me explain.

I am afraid that I am never going to learn how to get better. I am never going to learn how to get myself under control. What if one day I wake up and without even realizing it, all of the happiness I used to feel with every high runs out and never comes back. Sadness forever. I guess I am writing this to help myself. 

I hope it could help someone else. You’re not alone.

I am going to write a book. My teacher told me I should and for a second after he said it, I felt a little bit of hope for myself. I don’t know why. I couldn’t really explain it I guess. But there was something in me that just felt better. Maybe it was that someone believed I could do something as big as being an author. Maybe it was that it was something different doing something that I love to do. Either way, I think I need this. And I think I am going to thank him for pushing me to do it if it ever got noticed or published. I think I need to thank a lot of people. People who help me when I need to write like this.

I think we all need to find our book to write.

Maybe these thoughts are the start of something big. Maybe I can write to people like me who need something different. Maybe I can help someone the way I hope in life.

Just maybe.