You hear about it all the time, suicide. You see it on the news early in the morning on your way to the bus. You see it in bold black ink on your father's newspaper during breakfast. You hear it in the halls falling from the mouths of who you consider ¨Friends. ¨
LOCAL GIRL COMMITS SUICIDE, PARENTS ARE DEVASTATED
15 YEAR OLD BOY FOUND DEAD, HANGING
VIDEO OF TEENS SUICIDE SURFACES
The responses to these events are all alike, everyone seems to think the same.
¨He was always happy. ¨
¨We never expected him to do that. ¨
¨This isn't like them, they were always smiling. ¨
Of course, they were smiling that's what they wanted you to see. It's a way we call out for help. When we say I'm okay, we are saying please help. When we whisper I'm fine, we are screaming,
¨I can't take this anymore. ¨
You don't notice, do you? The pattern? It's always the same kids, the broken ones. It's the kids that you called stupid or gay. It's the kids you called ugly or fat. It's the angels whose wings have been cut from their bodies by your twisted hands. The words you speak scar us, the names you spit slap us hard in the face. The things you scream cut our wounds deeper until it spills red. What you can't see, is that those kids are already hurting. The kid you called fat won't eat anymore. The kid you pushed down is already beaten at home. The kid you saw crying is battling cancer. The kid you called a faggot was disowned by his family. They are like scratched records; you throw them out without giving them a chance to be listened to.
They joke about suicide; they joke about cutting ourselves. It's not funny, it's not what we want to do, but it's something we think we deserve.
¨Are you gonna cut yourself? ¨ They always ask this.
¨Run along little Emo. ¨
Why do they call us Emo? Were not Emo, we are just cracked glass, and it's only when we break do we cut you. You laugh until it happens when the brown rope meets our small necks. Only when those chalky pills touch our quivering lips, do you stop laughing. Why do they do that? They bully us every day, but only seem to care when we finally take our last breath. You're suddenly the star of the school when you're dead, they care more. Why is it when something finally happens, the adults take action? Why is it when we beg for help the adults do nothing but slap the bully on the wrist like a toddler? Suddenly they are trying to prevent suicide, suddenly they are more aware, but why now? Why when we kill ourselves instead of when our hearts were still beating? That's the thing; why? No one will ever be able to answer that.
Maybe it's because they don't think it's that serious, maybe they believe it just kids being kids. We wake up every day scared to take a step into school because every step we take it brings us closer and closer to hell. We can't breathe under the ocean of hate your pour down on us. Sometimes we can't say anything because our mouths are sewn shut by fear. Fear of your bruised fists coming down on us. I wish kids wouldn't do that, stand by and watch us as we are beaten and pushed to the ground. They see it and do nothing. Are they scared to? Are they bullies as well? It reminds me of Jousting, we are armed and ready with sticks in hand, ready to see which knight will leave the battleground. They watch us ride our horses out toward each other and cheer as one of us fall down in cold blood. The knight who falls is always me. As they claim the match they look down at me and tell me I'm worthless. They walk away as the crowd chants their name with mighty roars and screams.
When we finally reach our breaking point, the world waits in silence and anticipates what will come next. They screamed at us to kill ourselves and when we finally do it, they are silenced. Your words influence us. Have you heard the saying,
¨sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.¨
The lies in this are what make me laugh. Words do hurt me, the things that are said and done hurt worse than any cut on my wrists. My cuts, they are for everything you have ever said to me, they are everything you have ever done to me.
¨Look at little miss piggy oink little pig.¨
¨Your too ugly and fat to be loved.¨
¨Drop dead.¨
Maybe I will. We hear about the suicides, but do you really know what it's like to commit it? I'll tell you. As you stand on the chair, it feels like your standing on a piece of glass over a black pit, and with any sudden movement that glass feels like its gonna break sending you down into the darkness. That rope feels like strong hands that keep tightening with every breath. As you bring it closer, everything just seems like a blurry background. Before you know it, the glass is shattered and the hands around your neck tighten leaving deep purple bruises.
They wonder why? why did they do it? Ask the adults that didn't give it so much as a single thought. Ask the kids in the halls who watched as we fell. Ask the bullies that pushed us so far that death had to save us. I'm sure they will tell you the truth.
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