In Time of Sorrow, One Wish I Have for You Is-

It's said, that depression runs in families. And maybe it does. I'm not the first in my family to go through this, even though at times it seems like it. There are days when I feel as though I'm a bother to everyone around me, and would rather the ground open up and swallow me whole.

I feel as though I'm a problem to everyone, and so I build as many walls as I can to keep myself in and those around me out. I build friendships with the knowing that all I do is destroy them, and I'm terrified of falling in love for fear that I'll do something to hurt  them. I don't trust easily, and when I do, it takes a great effort from me on my part to get to the point where I feel comfortable.

When people look at me, they say they see someone who's confident, beautiful and outgoing. But to be perfectly honest, what you see and what I see, are two entirely different things. I'm nothing but a broken vase, put together with scotch tape- the cracks and chips are visible, no matter how tape is used.

I'm not a thing of beauty; I know I'm not, yet getting others to see that is next to impossible. I don't possess an ounce of beauty, though others say I do. The image in the mirror lies to all but me; I've never seen anything worth labeling "beautiful" when I look in the mirror. Far from it, in fact.

I bury myself in my dance, my writing, and my books as a way to escape. Dance is my Neverland. It's where I can be found, without being lost. Writing is my Oz, and books, my hurricane. I lose myself in music and writing, movies and books, as a way to escape my own self-loathing. When I'm in another world, I'm free.

I've lost count of the nights that I lay in bed with my music blasting in my ears, as the tears slip down my cheeks and stain my pillow. I've forgotten when I first started telling myself that no one would care if I ran off to Nova Scotia or Paris or Ireland.

I've learned how to sound cheerful, figured out what exactly to say to keep everyone from worrying about me, and taught myself how to project confidence, when that's the last thing I feel. I've trained the light that dances in my eyes, and practiced the ever present smile that hides what I'm really feeling. I've discovered that, if I show the dimples in my cheeks when I smile, then they'll be too distracted to see the tears swimming in my eyes. Though there are days when I slip up and show what I'm really feeling and thinking; only those that truly know me know that that's when I'm lying.

I try too hard to please people; I make sure everyone else is happy before myself; that's perfectly normal for me. I've spent so long this way that I know nothing else.

Most people wouldn't believe the things that rush through my mind; it's not a nice place. It even scares me. The fact that I could be thinking these thoughts terrifies me to death. I lay in bed some nights and imagine what it would be like if I disappeared, if I let my thoughts out and gave up. Sometimes, I wish my imaginings were real.

I have good days and I have bad days. And sometimes there are days in between. I very rarely have an absolutley wonderful day. At times, it seems like those days don't exist- at least not for me. And there are days when I just want to die, when I want to stop living and fade away. But that would destroy those that know me; yet to me, that would be the best thing possible.

There are days when I just want to talk; when I want to tell everyone what's running through my mind, and scream at the top of my lungs until someone grabs me around the shoulders and tells me to stop. There are nights when I lay in bed and imagine what it would be like if I just broke down and said what exactly was in my head. I keep asking myself if they would care if I told them, if they would blame me, call me crazy, if they would lock me up.

At times, I'm tempted to walk into the Psych ward and check myself in permanently; on my bad days, I feel as though that's where I belong. If I really have lost my mind, why shouldn't I?

I always thought I'd be the one that wouldn't be touched by depression; I guess I was wrong. I want very much to get out of this hole I'm in, to stop feeling like I do, to smile and be genuinely happy, and to not have to hide behind it. People think I'm all dimples and smiles, but that's far from the truth. If you really knew me, you'd see that I'm not what I project.

Inside, I'm an absolute nervous wreck.

I don't want to be.

I want to be normal.

I don't want to cry myself to sleep every night or pretend to be happy. I don't want to keep my thoughts to myself; I don't want to fade away. I just want to be normal....

"I wish you not a path devoid of clouds,

Nor a life on a bed of roses,

Not that you might never need regret,

Nor that you should never feel pain.

No, that is not my wish for you.

My wish for you is:

That you might be brave in times of trial,

When others lay crosses upon your shoulders.

When mountains must be climbed, 

And chasms are to be crossed;

When hope scarce can shine through.

That every gift God gave you might grow along with you.

And let you give the gift of joy to all who care for you.

That you may always have a friend who is worth that name.

Whom you can trust,

And who helps you in time of sadness.

Who will defy the storms of daily life at your side.

One more wish I have for you:

That in every hour of joy and pain,

You may feel God close to you.

This is my wish for you, and all who care for you.

This is my hope for you, now and forever."

- Irish Blessing

Take a Journey... Into the Beauty, Into the Danger.... Into the Wild

There are people in this world, who go looking for adventure. Christopher McCandless was searching for himself.
           - From the Into the Wild trailer, 2007

The book I'm currently reading is Jon Krakauer's 1996 National Bestseller Into the Wild, the story of Christopher McCandless, a young man who adopted Tolstoy's ideals and gave up all his worldly possessions to hitchhike across the country from Georgia to Alaska in order to live his life "in the wild"- living by himself off the land. Unfortunately, in the end, his lack of survival skills are what got him killed; he died in 1992 from a combination of starvation and poison from a potato plant. He had turned twenty-four that February.

At the time of his death, I was only about three-years-old, and so too young to understand, yet even really remember the headlines that most likely graced the pages concerning his death. However, when the film came out in 2007, I was seventeen going on eighteen, had heard about the book, but had no real interest in seeing either film or reading the story.

The reason I bring this up, is because a few weeks ago, my World Literature class had read The Death of Ivan Illyich, and were discussing Tolstoy and his life. We got on a discussion of how Tolstoy spent the majority of his life preaching "simplicity", a "life without materialistic attachments and social hierarchy," yet he never actually lived that way. In truth, Tolstoy lived the majority of his existence the exact opposite of what he preached, and it wasn't until the last year or two of his long life that he finally succeeded in living "simply". One of the girls in class compared- in her presentation on Tolstoy- the writer to Chris McCandless.

One of the major points she brought up, was that McCandless took Tolstoy's views to the extreme- going so far as to burn his identification, cash and leave the money in his bank account to charity and then hike into the Alaskan wilderness. He never returned- at least, not alive.

Surprisingly, I was the only one in the entire class that hadn't read the book or seen the film, so at work that weekend, I picked up the book while I was reshelving, intent on reading it- or at least going to make an honest attempt, if it held my interest. Seeing as I work at a bookstore, I'm allowed to borrow any book I want as long as I bring it back. My boss had told me that, seeing as I read everything I can get my hands on, this would be a book I'd be able to read and most likely enjoy. When I got off work, I walked to the bus stop, pulled out the book, and thumbed through it, studying the maps and reading the quotes at the beginning of each chapter without actually reading it. I didn't start really reading until I got on the bus.

Curling up on the back seat in the back corner of the bus, I settled down for the hour and forty-five minute ride- one hour plus stops every five minutes. I was able to get through the introduction and first chapter on the ride into the bus station, and worked my way into the second chapter on the walk home from the station. When I  reached the end of the second chapter and the words "..... dead for two weeks" I had to stop, because the description of how the hunters had found his body was- while not graphic- gruesome.  It turned my stomach, and I had to put the book away.

When I got home that night, I tried again, before finally giving up and searching for the movie on the Internet. A friend had recommended I look it up on Youtube, yet all I was able to find was the trailer and the ending scene. Interested, I watched the trailer, and then played the final scene. I got as far as him closing his eyes, before I had to stop, due to the fact that it made me sick to my stomach, which ultimately irked me to no end.

I'm an avid reader, and therefore am able to finish any book I pick up, yet this one I was unable to. I left it alone for the better part of two days. Part of the problem was most likely because A) it's true, B) he was only three years older than I at the time of his death- I'm twenty-one now, and he was twenty-four when he died- and C) the fact that he took Tolstoy's ideology to such extremes without preparing or thinking things through caused his death, when he was obviously smart enough to think things through and didn't.

I was able to get through that second chapter, and picked up again at Chapter Three- from Three on, it's been pretty easy to handle, mainly because the majority of the chapters I've read have been about his journey hoofing across the United States.

 The 1996 cover.                            The 2007 cover.

 

  

There are people that can successfully leave society and live "simply"- writer Henry David Thoreau was one of them. He left society behind in 1846, and until his death in 1862, he managed to write Walden's Pond and live pleasantly off the game he hunted and the land he farmed. Yet, Thoreau had also grown up in the wilderness, and so returned to his roots in 1846; it was easy for him to adjust and adapt to the wilderness because he had spent his childhood living in a cabin in the woods.

The transit bus that Christopher McCandless died in

In my honest opinion, I think McCandless had good intentions, yet he wasn't the brightest in regards to his planning. After all, burning your cash and identification, abandoning your car and hoofing across the United States with a backpack and a ten pound bag of rice- while it may seem like a brilliant plan in theory- is not the best plan in reality. He wasn't prepared for living in the wilderness, and it showed when he ate a poisonous potato plant by mistake.

               The Real Christopher McCandless

               Emile Hirsch as Christopher McCandless

In the end, one little mistake cost McCandless his life. While I don't necessarily agree with what he did or how he thought, I do sympathize with his family as any human being with a heart would over the death of a loved one. He was obviously a brilliant young man with the world at his feet; he could have done great things had he decided to stay within society instead of branching out on his own into Alaska. But he chose to live his life the way he saw fit, and though he was destitute, he was obviously happy with his life. I, nor any one else, can fault him for that happiness.

Right now, I'm trying to figure out whether or not the movie is worth watching. So far, the book is pretty good; I've gotten mixed reviews on the film though. My literature professor says that the film is definately worth watching, while a close friend says that it's relatively okay, but not as good as the book (but that's always a given when they turn books into movies).

I remember when the trailer came out, and the hype surrounding the story of the "hitchhiker who'd died in the Alaskan woods." Though the film was obviously ten years in the making, the majority of my friends in high school saw it as soon as it came out in theaters. I, being one of those who had no interest in the story of some random hitchhiker, had no desire to see the movie.

That was almost four years ago. I guess you could say that my interests have changed and that my horizons have broadened. I prefer to think that my reading list has gotten low.

I like the trailer; the imagery is absolutely beautiful, and coupled with the music, it's by far one of the best trailers I've seen. It almost- almost- makes me want to rent the movie and watch it. But even with that, I'm still on the fence about seeing the film. I will say this, however, there are some wonderful quotes from the trailer, especially the last one:

"If you want something in life, reach out and grab it."

2007 trailer for Into the Wild, directed by Sean Penn and starring Emile Hirsch

While I may not agree with what he did or how he did it, at least he had the courage to try-

And that's what counts.

Follow Me Down....

If I could fall down the rabbit hole into Wonderland like Alice, I would. I'd gladly follow the white rabbit, have tea with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, discuss philosophy with the Chesire Cat and his vanishing body, and seek advice from the Caterpillar. I would play nice to the Queen of Hearts and heed the White Rabbit's ever present warning of time.

There are days when I feel as though I'm in Wonderland already- days when nothing makes sense and everything is backwards, when people confuse me beyond understanding, and comprehension of the simplest things takes the biggest effort.

There are days when the printed words on a page are nothing but a jumble of letters, and the rhythm and beat of music is nothing but one continous pulse, with no real sign of stopping. I have days when I can't concentrate, let alone understand; other days I'm able to focus without a problem.

If I eat the mushroom, will my concentration grow until I can't handle it? Or will it shrink if I drink the elixir? Both have their consequences- one, it gets so out of control I can't do anything but struggle, the other, I'll be able to fit through the door and get out of the hall and go into the garden.

If my only help were the Chesire Cat with his lingering grin, I'd have to admit my current identity crisis- one that I'm not sure I'd be able to get out of. Of course, were I in Wonderland, it wouldn't be so bad, considering the fact that in Wonderland, everyone is crazy. Not a lick of sense is used, the slightest sign of understanding is problematic; black and white is shunned for color, and confusion is common.

If I could, I'd take life in Wonderland over life here. Confusion may play a part, but at least sanity and the need to think wouldn't be a problem. If I could find my white rabbit, fall down my rabbit hole and get lost in Wonderland, I wouldn't mind.

At times, insanity seems easier than sanity. There are days when I look for my white rabbit, in hopes that he'll lead me to my Wonderland. If the hole were unavailable, I wouldn't mind disappearing through the looking glass. Right now, Wonderland seems more favorable than the real world.

I could lose myself in fantasy, become a recluse like Emily Dickenson and write poetry for the rest of my life. I could drink myself to death like Ernest Hemingway or get into drugs like F. Scott Fitzgerald, carve out a meager existence in a hovel in New York.

I guess, what I'm trying to say, is take me out of here.