June 8, 2008

TESLA'S SIDE OF THE STORY

It's quiet in my living room, the whole apartment silent as I stare blankly into space, mom upstairs on her computer and my little bother doing god knows what…

I don't care anymore…at least I didn't; my eyes red and puffy from the days of crying and the last little remnants of eyeliner clinging to my face, not wanting to let go, like I'm about to. The pill bottle is setting in front of me, open on the coffee table, right next to the glass of water, as the MTV news reporter drones on about some worthless rapper 'singing' words that mean nothing to me; speaking of things that I guess I just never learned to appreciate and I guess I never will. Phat rides and fine bitches has never really been my thing.

For every three depressing months in that year I tried at least once to put an end to it. The endless fighting with my mom; the rumors around the town, the threats, the stalking, the fear caused by those who can't accept my differences, the fear of being hated…loathed…unwanted. At least once every three months I tried to stop it, to get rid of it forever and go to a place where fear was not an issue and I could finally be myself. I could stop hating family…stop hating my relationships…stop hating myself.

All I needed to do was take that smooth plastic bottle and dump it in my mouth, swallowing those little dry round pills with water, and then it would be over, and I could just stop crying. Maybe this time it would work. This time it wouldn't be a rushed mouthful of aspirin or a box of rat poisoning, and I wouldn't end up choking on my own vomit. But things like that take time, and I took mine, making sure I was damn well and ready to down those little white pills…

Minutes past, the tv still going; mindless, brainwashing bullcrap. For every second that ticks by I'm closer and closer to taking every god damned little pill inside that bottle and they start looking better and better. Then the tv starts playing a different tune…something I've never heard before; violent and beautiful. Intrigued I look up to see five oddities such as myself, singing that song like they don't have a f**k care in the world…like the fact that they're 'freaks' doesn't bother them. In fact they're proud of it. So proud that they're screaming it.

For the first time in days I remember what it's like to smile and I sit and listen, tapping my foot to the quickened beat of the chorus as a girlish little boy with shoulder length hair and the biggest cover girl lined eyes I've ever seen is singing the exact same words I needed to hear. For the whole three minutes and four seconds that that song is playing I hear everything I need to hear, and suddenly…I don't feel alone…I don't feel afraid…I don't feel ugly. I feel just as pretty as the boy on tv, and I realize that all those times I tried…all those times I failed…it wasn't cause I was doing something wrong…it was 'cause I was meant to get through and find something to hold on to.

Before that I had always thought that guardian angels were meant for the pretty girls with money…the ones who actually mattered and needed protecting; a standard I far from hold up too.

But that day I had an angel to watch over me;
To tell me I'd be fine
To hand my life back to me
And tell me it was mine

I had and angel to make me smile
And tell me it'd be okay
And angel to hold me for a while
Without a word to say

That angel saved my life that day…and he's continued to save it time and time again ever since then. His name is Gerard. And I thank him every f**k day for giving me back my life; for making me appreciate what I'd always taken for granted. I owe due respect to the whole entire band…but he is the main reason I continue living today. And I'd do anything to repay that debt."

-Tesla, 19, Maine