Please, Thank You, and You're Welcome, the Hardest Words to Say | Teen Ink

Please, Thank You, and You're Welcome, the Hardest Words to Say

April 1, 2010
By lylaterrace BRONZE, San Jose, California
lylaterrace BRONZE, San Jose, California
4 articles 0 photos 7 comments

He's one of those people who can see your light. Your light. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? He tells you he sees your leadership via the way you carry yourself and the way you write. And all you can say is a simple "Thank you." All the guys with their eyes on you; you've gotten used to all the awkward silences when nobody has anything to say, including yourself. It's so difficult to take the compliments and "Thank you's". It's perfect, though. You hate it when you see the real world again. Love the way you can connect with the other guitarist kid, the way you both know the feeling of the vibrations of the strings running through your body. Listen to the way the suicidal kid talks of his bullies. Give him some kind, wise words. See the sweet exchange of a pick from the guitarist kid to the suicidal one. Smile to yourself and wish you could stay there for the rest of your existence. Sit next to the scene boy and realize that you are most definitely not alone. You hear that all of these programs are bull. You've gotten lucky, haven't you? Can't wait to trade words with them again, the warm breath lingering in the air, so soft. Fall in love with the feeling. Then meet the real world again. And rediscover the reason you're there in the first place.
Listen to the populars after they find out about your dark secret and your pit of despair. The girls begging you to stop, the guys yelling "wannabe" at you. The loud hail of insults. It just hurts more. Just ignore them. You try, so hard to ignore them. Its harder than it sounds, though. Hear your best friend apologize. Feel a fingertip wipe away the smudged black eyeliner from your face. Taste the waterfall falling from your eyes. Lift your sleeve and scream, "I'm not a wannabe!" And feel the deep hole in your heart grow wider as you keep accidentally tear at it. Know that all you have to hang on to now is your music.
Embrace it. Love it. Feel the bass rumble in your ears. Pump your fist like you did at that No Checkpoints in the Jungle concert. Taste the bitterness of the pills. Wonder what the hell is wrong with you. Go back to the group again. Hear them laugh at your jokes. Play some Frisbee. Talk about Smashing Pumpkins and the way your guitar has strings, not buttons. Know he can see through your flaws. See that genuine smile. Finally, someone who understands you. Keep loving it. It's something you can't forget. Not anytime soon, anyway.

The author's comments:
I wrote this piece about a depression group I go to twice a week. The people there aren't all messed up like you'd think. They're very genuine people. I love them.

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