"If you have emotional problems,
I don't want to hear about them."

Is what I heard,
long ago,
from the girl who today
called me up to tell me
she went to the doctor
and they put her on "meds"
because she's been crying easily
and been so sad for the past week
that she almost tried to kill herself once.
And my first thought was,
"Only once?"
Because I used almost do it
every. damned. moment.
not that I'm proud or anything,

because I'm not.

But when she told me that,
I was suddenly overwhelmed
by the awful sense of
jealousy.
That someone went out of their way
to help her.
To listen to her.
To talk to her.
To fix her.
That someone took her
seriously.
Whether it was deserved or not.
(Would it be for me?)

And somehow it seems strange to me
that I could have been diagnosed
as one of many things
for at least, oh...
four years,
and I have scars all up and down
my arms and legs and hips
and I've been twenty-five pounds underweight
at numerous points in time
and I've some secrets
that even my diary couldn't tell.

But yet still,
I've never talked to any doctor
or laid on a couch to talk about feelings
or had one of those pricey pills prescribed.

I had to bury my razors
myself.

And I had to learn to love
myself.

And I had to learn to live by
myself.

And I had to start anew by
myself.

And I had to recreate
myself.

And I sometimes wonder
if I hadn't had to do everything by
myself,

if someone had cared enough
(or I had let them),
if maybe it wouldn't have taken
so fucking long?

But at the same time, I wonder
if I hadn't had to do everything by
myself,

would I still be alright with
myself?

Would I have taken the same steps?
Would I be the same person?
Would I be as strong
If I had had someone else
to fix me?
Would I know what I could do
all by
myself?

So maybe it's alright
that I did it all
myself.

Maybe it's alright
that it took four years,
a hundred hungry hours,
two-hundred some scars,
a thousand tears,
a million individual
lies and thoughts and hurts
and a billion little individual
hopes and dreams and prayers.

Because isn't that what makes us
human?

Each year a precious part of my life
that I would never trade.

Each scar a tangible reminder
of how far I've come,
redemption inscribed in the flesh.

Each hungry hour a struggle
to see how strong my will is.

Each tear a memory,

of a good time or a bad time,
but a time in which I was alive.

Each hope defines my heart
and what it
and I
are capable of.

Each dream pulls me towards the future,
towards a future I didn't expect to see.

Because isn't that what makes us
human?

All those hopes and dreams,
scars and tears and lies,
each year of life defining
exactly who we are?

Isn't that what makes me
myself?

I think so.
And in point of fact,
I don't think I'd change
a moment.
I want to keep my hopes
but those scars can stay, too.
I'll never let those dreams go
but the hurts will stay, too.
The memories I won't give up
are parts of me
I won't give up.

And every so often,
maybe I'll take a hungry hour
just to taste it.
Just to remind myself I'm alive.

And every moment, I'll take a year,
cause I'm greedy for time,
greedy for life,
I'm drinking it in,
letting it flow through me,
feeling it beat in my chest.

Because living is...
something beyond.
Something beyond existence.
Beyond the years we spend on earth,
living is something more.

Living is something
that transcends the past,
goes past the future,
is all about the here
and now.

Living is what I want
for
myself.

It's what I will have for
myself.

It's what I will create for
myself.

If I have to, I'll do it by
myself.

Because in the end,
all I need,
all I've ever needed is
to live.

And I can do that by
myself.

And, end in the end
isn't that what makes me
myself?

This...living.
Isn't it what makes us
human?