It was Benjamin Franklin who famously said, “In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes.” I’m not an American history virtuoso, so I don’t know the context in which Mr. Franklin said this. I don’t know if he made macabre statements such as this often or if he was generally just an emo kind of guy. In regards to my life this assertion is extremely accurate: I am 100% certain that one day I will die, and, unless my accountant is swindling me, I am 100% certain that I do pay taxes. However, this statement is not entirely precise because another thing that is certain is that I will be at Starbucks this Sunday from 12pm to 3pm, as I sometimes do when I want to sit in a coffee shop and sip green tea latte.
Something that is at least 80% certain is I will see a particular person there who I’ve seen at least 80% of most Sunday I’ve been there. I have never talked to nor have I had any significant contact with her. I do, however, look forward to seeing her there every Sunday, and it has absolutely nothing to do with her large breasts. Being that I am astutely aware to the goings-on around me (read: eavesdropper), I’ve learned that 1) her name is Allison, 2) she hates her life, and 3) she wants to kill herself. For reasons that I have never been able to ascertain, Allison wants to die, and this is exactly why she is the one regular patron at Starbucks that I care to see. Without knowing the circumstances of her situation, I can’t say that I understand her. But, as a despondent individual, I can empathize with the sentiment of not wanting to be alive .
Almost a year ago I experienced a terrible heartbreak and subsequently suffered a psychological meltdown of epic proportions. This involved several months of crying, physical trauma, screaming, and other acts of emotive uncontrollability that was generally perceived as “not normal.” I built walls around my life and isolated myself. Every day was a struggle to stay alive and I lived with a persistent sense of impending doom. I was sad, depressed, morose, and emo. I was not pleasant to be around. Have you ever heard music from an emo band? I suspect that you have, and I also suspect that you didn’t think it was any good. There’s a reason why nobody likes emo bands: It has less to do with their eyeliner and more to do with the fact that they’re just fucking annoying.
As time went on, I climbed the walls I built around myself like a determined illegal immigrant. I’m not exactly sure how, but I’ve overcome that part of my life. I can’t say that I’ve overcome the depression entirely, and maybe it’s because I subconsciously don’t want to. The thing about depression is that you can never completely get over it because the past can never be erased. I still think about what happened, and occasionally it will make me cry. The biggest difference between then and now is that back then I would often spontaneously burst into tears at any time of the day and cry uncontrollably. Nowadays, I can usually wait until the time between going to bed and falling asleep to cry, and sometimes it’s just because I’m drunk.
I know it’s none of my business, but I genuinely don’t want Allison to slash her forearms. I want to tell her that she’s not alone, even though it’s better that she is. I want to tell her that I know exactly what she’s feeling. I want to tell her that, like her, I understand that wanting to die is the only way she can feel alive. I want to tell her that she has redeeming qualities, even though I know she wouldn’t believe me. I want to tell her that to be emo is to be certain about adversity, and life is more about overcoming adversity than it is about the pursuit of happiness.
And, I want to tell her that it’s certain that I will be here next Sunday, and I would like to be certain that she will be, too.
Something that is at least 80% certain is I will see a particular person there who I’ve seen at least 80% of most Sunday I’ve been there. I have never talked to nor have I had any significant contact with her. I do, however, look forward to seeing her there every Sunday, and it has absolutely nothing to do with her large breasts. Being that I am astutely aware to the goings-on around me (read: eavesdropper), I’ve learned that 1) her name is Allison, 2) she hates her life, and 3) she wants to kill herself. For reasons that I have never been able to ascertain, Allison wants to die, and this is exactly why she is the one regular patron at Starbucks that I care to see. Without knowing the circumstances of her situation, I can’t say that I understand her. But, as a despondent individual, I can empathize with the sentiment of not wanting to be alive .
Almost a year ago I experienced a terrible heartbreak and subsequently suffered a psychological meltdown of epic proportions. This involved several months of crying, physical trauma, screaming, and other acts of emotive uncontrollability that was generally perceived as “not normal.” I built walls around my life and isolated myself. Every day was a struggle to stay alive and I lived with a persistent sense of impending doom. I was sad, depressed, morose, and emo. I was not pleasant to be around. Have you ever heard music from an emo band? I suspect that you have, and I also suspect that you didn’t think it was any good. There’s a reason why nobody likes emo bands: It has less to do with their eyeliner and more to do with the fact that they’re just fucking annoying.
As time went on, I climbed the walls I built around myself like a determined illegal immigrant. I’m not exactly sure how, but I’ve overcome that part of my life. I can’t say that I’ve overcome the depression entirely, and maybe it’s because I subconsciously don’t want to. The thing about depression is that you can never completely get over it because the past can never be erased. I still think about what happened, and occasionally it will make me cry. The biggest difference between then and now is that back then I would often spontaneously burst into tears at any time of the day and cry uncontrollably. Nowadays, I can usually wait until the time between going to bed and falling asleep to cry, and sometimes it’s just because I’m drunk.
I know it’s none of my business, but I genuinely don’t want Allison to slash her forearms. I want to tell her that she’s not alone, even though it’s better that she is. I want to tell her that I know exactly what she’s feeling. I want to tell her that, like her, I understand that wanting to die is the only way she can feel alive. I want to tell her that she has redeeming qualities, even though I know she wouldn’t believe me. I want to tell her that to be emo is to be certain about adversity, and life is more about overcoming adversity than it is about the pursuit of happiness.
And, I want to tell her that it’s certain that I will be here next Sunday, and I would like to be certain that she will be, too.
