In elementary school we use to play this game where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm or pinky finger could tell us how long we’d live or how many kids we’d have.
“You’ll live to be 76, and have 4 kids” she said.
Natalie and I had nothing to fear because our lives would
consist of happiness and love. And somehow we were fortune tellers at the age
of nine and we had the stars aligned in our favor acting as saviors for each
other while we whispered silent prayers to God asking him to make us best
friends forever, but apparently forever only lasted until middle school.
It’s now January 2014 and my hands… my hands, they hold
story lines, they’ve worn and calloused, they’ve scarred and torn, carrying
expectations like a balancing act, sweating and slipping until they can’t hold
on anymore. They let go in 2009 when I watched my hero die. They let go in 2011
when I was first diagnosed with depression. They let go in 2013 when they
determined I had Lyme’s disease and so many other diagnoses that still don’t
make sense to me.
But we all carry around these things inside us that no one
else can see and it took me seventeen years to realize what they meant when
they said the monsters don’t live under your bed.
I remember when the mornings started with the sun rising. I remember
when the days ended with the moon shining. I remember how I used to see the world,
how I use to live. Now days fade into nights and
nights fade into mornings, what felt like a perfect picture, now looks like a distorted drawing. To have what feels like a beautiful masterpiece, and to see it bleed, to see all its colors fade, right in front of you, and the only thing you can do is try to paint a new picture, but sometimes it’s hard, when you realize the world doesn’t appreciate art like it use to. They say we’re too young to be this sad, because people need real happiness. The kind that isn’t rolled up and lit. The kind that doesn’t come out of a bottle. The kind that makes your cheeks sore and your stomach ache. The kind that makes you think a little deeper, that makes you feel weightless. The kind that nobody can give you. The kind that you have to find for yourself.
nights fade into mornings, what felt like a perfect picture, now looks like a distorted drawing. To have what feels like a beautiful masterpiece, and to see it bleed, to see all its colors fade, right in front of you, and the only thing you can do is try to paint a new picture, but sometimes it’s hard, when you realize the world doesn’t appreciate art like it use to. They say we’re too young to be this sad, because people need real happiness. The kind that isn’t rolled up and lit. The kind that doesn’t come out of a bottle. The kind that makes your cheeks sore and your stomach ache. The kind that makes you think a little deeper, that makes you feel weightless. The kind that nobody can give you. The kind that you have to find for yourself.
But I’m drowning from information and starving for
knowledge. I need to rip your name off my tongue because it no longer tastes
sweet. Because I have so many hopes and dreams that have yet to come true,
because I’ve never been kissed in a rain storm, because I’ve never gotten a
tattoo. Because my names not really Grace Kelly, because Mr. Nelson told me to
make a pen name, because I’m standing here in front of you wishing I was back
home in the comfort of my own bedroom but instead I’m here speaking from my
heart trying to get you to listen to me as if I have something profound to tell
you.
But no one said that it was going to be this hard. No one
taught a tired soul that if you grip onto broken glass loosely it doesn’t bleed
as much. No one said that it was okay to not be okay, so I decided to say
nothing.
Love always,
Gabi Israelsen
Love always,
Gabi Israelsen
