My First Thoughts...

[YukiTen]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width: 425px; background-color: #EFEFEF; border-left: #242424 10px solid; border-top: #242424 70px solid; border-radius: 8px 8px 0px 8px;] WORDS 000 TAGS open NOTES --- ❝ [style=float: left; font-family: arial; font-size: 54px; color: #242424; line-height: 48px; margin-right: 3px;]M y First Thoughts…. There are many things that filled my head when I first stepped into Mr. Weissman's 11th grade English class and even more filed in when the man started to teach. Some were good, some were bad. All of them were memories from ages long past, tucked away in the deepest reaches of my mind. Painful, sweet, strangling, and soothing. All of these thoughts are thoughts I wished never to have again. They're jumbled and seem to go on forever, twisting and turning into other subjects, all relevant. When Mr. Weissman stood up there in his button-down and glasses, I honestly thought the class would be completely and utterly boring. I didn't think I'd get the right amount of attention that my other teachers so refused to give, nor the proper learning experience I need. I thought that he'd be a horrible, stickler of an old man. Why? Because most of my previous teachers were like that. They didn't focus on what was really important. A grade is no more important than a grain of sand. It's just a letter that somehow helps you get into college. Grades were what my other teachers focused on. It's almost funny how unimportant the actual grade itself really is. I was so completely distracted by how irritatingly uninvolved they all were that I misjudged everything about the class and the teacher. But, as I said, I thought he would be as aggravating as the rest. Grades this and grades that. Are letters so important? Letters strung together on a little report card, standing for nothing? I believe that grades don't mean jack shit, especially if someone who's supposed to teach you and nurture you doesn't do their job or even cares enough about you to do their job. Grades only mean something if your teachers are there to support you and encourage you. Otherwise, what motivation is there to try to get good grades? The words that spilled from his mouth about friends, family, forever, fate, and forgiveness… They all struck me hard. I had the hardest time trying not to break out into tears during class. My memories resurfaced and pain and sadness just filled me to the brim. "Friends come and go. You'll only have two of them for a lifetime…if you're lucky." Completely true. They walk in and walk out so fast, it's hard to keep track of. But…every friend I ever made I miss. Every good, respectable friend I ever made I would kill for. Every friend I connected to, respected, and looked up to I would throw myself in front of a fast-moving training for. They mean so much to me, it's insane. Even the ones I hardly talk to - like Essence. God, I love her. She was my best friend all throughout middle school and a little part of me died every time I watched her leave for another state. She was my partner in crime, my bestie, my wifey, and my soul sister. It was us against the world. We took everything in stride, made mistakes, ran around like chickens with our heads cut off, explored all avenues of life, wrote, sang, played video games till insomnia took hold, laughed, smiled, fought each other's battles, fought each other like we were married. We did all kinds of things together and never gave a shit about what anyone thought. We were in it till the end, right? But people change. And that's what made everything fall apart. She moved, I moved, we went to different schools. Our personalities shifted, our habits became new ones, and our circles of friends shrank and expanded. We became two very different people. I became quite the little screw up… I failed freshman and sophomore year. I pushed myself to try many things that I really shouldn't have. Drinking, drugs, cigarettes… Yes, even sex. The sad part is I like it. I like doing stupid shit. In fact, I love it. I get such a rush when all of these things tear me away from all my problems. A smile returns to my typically dismal face. I don't have to think. I don't have to feel. I don't have to cry. I don't have to do too much of damn near anything. I can just relax and enjoy it. I feel no pain. This brings me to another thought… I had never been allowed to be a child my whole life. I was always alone. My parents were never home. I was always shoved onto somebody else's shoulders and kept there without any say. I wasn't allowed to have an opinion. I was hit for having one. I was hit for doing anything. Washing the dishes wrong, crying, not speaking, and eating. I was always getting yelled at for this, that, and the other. No one ever gave me a chance to fix it myself, to feel, to not be so wound up and sad. No one. When Mr. Weissman stood up there and said he saw all the sadness in our eyes, my whole life up to now flashed through my dulling eyes. He really didn't know the half of it. All the physical, mental, and emotional abuse has crushed me. The people around me don't think I have the feelings that I have. They all think that it's okay to step on the shattered pieces of my soul. They think that it's okay to grope me, poke and prod me, scream and fight me, hit and laugh at me. They all think that it's okay when it really fucking isn't. I have feelings, dammit! I have a heart. I don’t care how hard it is to believe. It's in there. I have one. And it throbs so hard in my chest that I have health problems. I have an erratic arrhythmia and depression so severe I'm on suicide watch. No one ever stopped to think about how I might feel. No one ever stopped to see if I was doing okay. All the shit and the piss that goes on in my life is nowhere near as bad as what happens in other's lives…but just because it isn't as bad doesn't mean it isn't horrible or that it means any less. No one cares, though, so does any of this even matter? I could sit here and write out every single feeling I had, but do they even matter? No one will listen. They'll judge. They'll ignore. It's all about them! Why don't I get to have a day? Why? Why am I never allowed to feel? You all will talk about your life experiences. I won't get the chance to be heard. You will. I will not. And it hurts to know this. You'll talk of rape, or horrible relationships, of suicide, and of all the dumb shit you've ever done. Everyone will feel bad for you. Everyone will pet you and hug you in hopes of making you feel better. I say, "Good for you." As I grow older, I become exceedingly bitter. People irritate me, distract me. I hate damn near everyone. You all suck. You do. Don't sit there and shake your head. You fucking suck and you know it. You don’t give a shit about how other people feel. It's all about you. Everything. You, you, you, you, you. Learn some fucking compassion. All this YOLO. All this SWAG. Fuck you and go die. You're turning yourselves into idiots. But, wait… You already were idiots. My generation is full of them, idiots. It's sickening. I hate it. I finally got to quit smoking and then you all just had to take a big, fat SWAG/YOLO filled shit on my triumph. Now I smoke. Great, thanks. My mouth is fowl, yes. Think of why that might be. I'm obviously angry. My heart aches. I'm tired. I've been through more than a lot of people and I'm still ignored like I was never here in the first place. I cuss and I curse because I'm just so bitter from all the shit that's gone on in my life and because of how pathetic people are these days. It's sad how one person can have so much hate, anger, and pain trapped inside of them. It's really, really sad. No one should have to feel this way. No one. I don't give a damn if the person is Hitler. No one deserves to feel this way. It's tiring. It weakens the soul. All of it is so heavy and there's no hope of getting rid of it. It has to go somewhere, so you may as well just keep it. The moment I heard 'rape' I wanted to die. That's a story I will never go into. But it still crossed my mind, flashed before my eyes, gave me a headache, and stabbed at my heart. No man will ever understand how truly painful it is. No woman could ever do the same things to a man that have been done to me and countless other young girls. Beauty…a precious jewel. When people say things like that, I want to hit them and yell out, "Bullshit!" I don't believe people when they say things like that. They never truly mean it. They don't even care how you feel when they say those things. It's meaningless. It's all meaningless. Cliché, repeated to others. I hate that meaninglessness. It's hurtful. I really wanted to drop to the floor and cry. I wanted to cry for hours, for days, for weeks, for months. No one says those things and means it. No one. Not now. And this is what goes on in my head. This is what went down when I first took this class. I didn't go into all of it, of course. It would've taken too long. It would've been too depressing. Quite frankly, I don’t have the time to explain it all. I don’t have the patience. Nor do I have the heart. Here, at almost 2,000 words, I explained all that I could without breaking into violent tears or taking a smoke break. As I think about everything now, I believe it will be a good experience for me. Maybe I'll unwind. Maybe I'll smile more often and with meaning. Maybe I'll remove my mask. Maybe I'll become less bitter. [/style] ❞ THINGS. THE LEAVES AND FREQUENCIES, LOST BETWEEN GRASS AND SPLENDID EVENINGS, EMITTING THIS IS THE ROOM WHERE WE ALWAYS DREAMED OF

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