Thinking Randomly

So, at times one has to question why one feels the way they do. I’m lying on my mattress in the middle of my room, staring up at my posters that cover the holes in my walls. For some reason I feel this…emptiness in my stomach. I know that it can’t be because of school, why would it? I’m getting used to school, besides the fact that I’m the oldest junior in the school, older than most of the seniors even, and I’m getting pretty good at fighting back. You learn how to be strong when you’ve lived like I have. It’s a necessity. If you can’t stand up for yourself, you are just as good as dead. I know a lot of people say that, but for me, it’s true. If you’ve been beaten by several people for most of your life, you learn how to survive. If you get involved with the wrong people, you learn how to survive. 1

I’m thinking about my past. That is one of the things I hate catching myself doing; pondering the past. I always wonder why people go back and frown upon their past mistakes. I’m one of those people. I look back, and I see the kids I thought were my friends, the kids that got me into heavy drugs, the kids that I like to blame for me going to rehab. The truth is, those kids I can’t blame for me going to rehab. The solid truth is, that I can’t frown upon my past, regret it, since it seems to be what I had wanted at the time. If I could go back, I probably wouldn’t change a single thing about my past, other wise I might just be a weak person, weak teenager. If I could go back to the day that I got in that car and shot up for my first time, I probably wouldn’t stop myself. I sound crazy right? Hell, I sound crazy even to myself. Shooting up is what killed…her. Me, I’m the one that killed her, even if it was indirectly, I was still the cause. I loved her, and I lost her. But if something were to say to me, “So, Zave, you wanna go back and change your life?” I would probably say no. If it wasn’t for her death, I would still be shooting up, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t know just how much I could possibly love another human being. If it wasn’t for my dad being a genuinely cruel man, I wouldn’t know how to fight. I guess I can’t really complain, right?2

For some reason, sitting on this bed is one of maybe three things that bring me solace; that and playing bass or guitar. I have no idea why, but when my fingers touch the strings, everything fades away. I’m loved by everyone, yet no one exists. Does that make sense? I feel wanted, yet there is no one there to want me. I don’t expect you to really understand it, or maybe you do, I don’t know. When I play our song, the one she and I wrote together, she’s still alive. I should be over her death. I want to know what’s wrong with me. Why am I still brooding over her death? She died almost two years ago, and I still have nightmares about it. I guess death is a funny thing like that. Maybe I just want to know that she’s okay, to tell the truth, no matter how crazy I sound, I really do believe she is okay, maybe that’s why I’m still alive.3

I have so many things running through my mind right now. I want to say all of them, yet all that would come out would be gibberish. Have you ever had that happen to you? Just all you can do is think, yet you have no idea what the hell you’re thinking about? I hate that feeling. I guess if I were to pick one thing I’m thinking, it would have to do with what my fingers are doing. My right middle finger is tracing the hole in my left arm. Well, it’s more of a really bad scar from an infection I got there. Just touching it sends shockwaves of memories rushing through me. I remember the first time I touched the needle, the first time I kissed her, the first time we went further together, the first time I experienced a real death, the first time I went to rehab. Once all those first are done haunting me, my second trip to rehab floods back. I hate when I have to think about it. It’s really hard to admit that I really went. Could I have been that much of a loser? I mean, I know I dress like a loser. When I guy doesn’t know what his natural hair colour is you know you’re in trouble. I want to know why I did it. I can’t even remember why I smoked my first joint. All I can remember is when I was in sixth grade, that was the year I discovered the horrible world of drugs. First day, I remember they made us write one of those really lame papers, “What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?” I never wrote what I really wanted to be, but I remember thinking, anything but my dad. I never wanted to drink, I never wanted to fight anyone, I never wanted to be him. That very year I became him, the age of twelve I became him. I don’t know, all I know is that I’m not him any more, which I guess is a good thing. I still can’t help but wonder what possessed me to do it. Smoking weed wasn’t exactly the cool thing to do at my school, drinking was for losers, I can’t remember why I did it. But then again, I can barely remember the days of the week my brain is so far fried.4

I still smoke cigarettes, and I have to quit with the weed considering my present situation. I swear to God, I go through at least two packs in a day. I can’t even walk up the stairs without having to stop every couple of seconds to catch my breath. I guess that’s just the unfortunate side effect. My friends and I all smoke, a lot. I love my friends to death, she is the reason for that. Without her, I probably would be unable to say that. Heartbreak sucks, but I guess it’s something that happens to everyone, just something you have to learn to deal with. I guess it’s like that with life in general. No body has it any better or any worse than anybody else, at least I don’t think so. I use to think that I had the worst life on the face of the planet, but in truth, that really rich kid that goes to my school, could have a life a million and one times worse than mine could ever possibly be. I have my friends to turn to, some people don’t even have that. With all the things I’ve done, seen, have had happened to me, I know that I can’t always sit on my mattress and pout. Every second I do that, it’s a wasted second. I understand that you need to do that sometimes, but I threw away at least six years of my life, I can’t throw away the other forty that I’ll be lucky to have at the rate I’m smoking. I want to hold her one more time, but I know that I can’t so I’m going to make up for it by holding other people just as long. I want to be able to think that I’ve never overdosed, but I know that I can’t, so I’m going to tell people that overdoses happen. I’ve been in a place where I’ve wanted to be dead, but I know that I can’t do that, just because of my friends, so I’m going to live by the cards I’ve been dealt, and I’m going to show everyone that thinks I’m nothing, that someday, I can be the biggest something they’ve ever known.5