Looking At Yourself In Third Person Perspective

Looking At Yourself In A Third Person Perspective

One.
Wednesday, June 11th, 2008:

“Your immobile body lies firmly on the porcelain
As you look at this filth- your disturbing thoughts.
Moreover, you may think of these things to write down;
Those things that you vowed to never say aloud.
This thought in your mind- in your bathwater;
It will never be gone- a continuous bacteria
Using every commodity to spoil your body
and the thoughts that persuade you;
This really is a full body separation.”

You get out of the water.  Walking naked across the hallway, you leave large, visible puddles all over the carpet.  It is truly urine and dirt from your body that lies directly on the floor, but does the world realize the little things you do to anger the microscopic animals that live beneath your feet?

and getting dressed, to you, is slipping on a pair of jeans and a robe.  You pull your jeans over your scarred up legs and think of the 4 years of mutilation that have been caused by your insecurity and your overfilled mind.  It is usually best not to remember these times, but they are remembered every day at some point in time.
Your robe comforts you in a desirable fashion. 
It reminds you of guinea pigs and mice- your favorite animals.

You find yourself reading a book, and then writing your day as it has been so far.  Every day is the same writing- the same twenty-three letters, the same six words, the same everything.
I woke up, bathed, and dressed.
You wonder if the rest of the world does the same.

You begin to sleep to the nearly silent tune of your breath.  This disgusting musical noise will eventually never be heard again.

Every nap you take dozes into a smile of unpredictable manner.  You may be smiling of the thought of children riding bicycles, or you may be smiling at the thought of pain and sorrow.  “Do those thoughts prove sanity in any way?”  You wait for five o’clock in the morning to shine. It’ll take, roughly, 2 hours.




























Two.
The clock blinks 5:02AM.
It is still dark.  The sky softly whispers that it will be grey and cloudy today. 
You smile at the thought of it, but
you know you are two minutes late for morning.  You know that this greedy two minutes will eat at you all day.  Now, when you sit alone, you will feel double the loneliness.  This day will begin and end with the feeling of complete emptiness and a half. 

Today is the day that you vowed to go through with your promise.
The promise you made with Dorothy had to be made on a Wednesday.
It also had to be on the 11th. 
Dorothy claims that the number 11 is everywhere. 
She thinks everything has to do with that number. 
Maybe she’s insane.
In spite of that, whatever she says, you try your best to agree with- she deserves that much.
She got you so far in life- 15 years of hope.

Your breakfast consists of one, large, shiny apple and a cup of black coffee.  No meat for you.  Those animals are too unpleasant and unacceptable to eat. Does anyone deserve this kind of death?  Death should only consist of peace, love, and happiness- an unbelievable, true combination.

You don’t want to go to school today. 
You selfishly miss the days that you had it all- friends, happiness, and faith.
Why do friends have to turn into the people that hate you immensely?
You are not looking forward to this school day.

You are driven to school at 7:31a.m and end up stepping indoors at 7:40a.m.  You are 20 minutes early for school.  You are always early.  It is the time that you prepare yourself for the hellhole that education has become. 
You are just too old for this.  Why are you are too old for this?  You know you are too old for this.  Why does your birth certificate say ‘92?  You know you have been on this soil for over fifteen years.  This cannot be right.  It cannot be true.  Fifteen year old girls have no minds.  The comparison is unbelievable when you look into your mind, and then any other young 15 year-old mind.

Now, Dorothy is in rage; She has full confidence in the fact that she has too much common sense for this nonsense.

You are dreading the fact that reality exists and imaginary lands have not been seen by your eyes.  Is there anyone else on this world of humanity that feels the way you do?  Dorothy scoffs at this question as if she knew an answer.  How could she know this magnificent answer?  Why don’t you?  You come from the same body; it is the same heart, lungs, mind, and soul.  Something about her makes you cringe at any thought in which she speaks of.  Something about her makes you need change.  Change is the only word that Dorothy does not understand.

1st block begins with band.  It can be boring, but at least the music that, to you, is considered a flock of geese calms you down. 
Half of this block is through and the other half begins with choir.
This consists of you yelling at the bullies that call your teacher fat- end of story.

During the school breakfast, you refuse to eat.  This is only because the school serves meat.  So this is where you either sit alone, or speak with the teacher with your middle name for a last name.  Mr. Middle Name has got to be your favorite teacher.  He teaches Tech Ed.  This is the class where, early this year, you became interested in being an electrical engineer.  He is probably the nicest guy you know.  Alas, he is moving after this year.  You speak with him frequently in order to secretly whisper a proper goodbye.

The bell rang.  You dread 2nd block.  Current events mean nothing to you. 
History means nothing to you.

You sit in one of those half-empty classrooms that you know will never be considered full.  It frustrates you to see the blank minds of others that have no idea what the purposes of sitting in emptiness are.  It frustrates the two of you so much, that you cannot refrain from the water seeping out of your eyes. 

The sun is in view near noon.  You wish for those grey clouds to return, but the sky is so clear.  You know that the night will end in stars. 

“Start paying attention to your class.”  “Yes, Dorothy.”  The African children are starving.  Chinese villages are starving.  The current events in the news show some sort of proof to this by videotaping something that we are unable to see with our eyes.  We shield our eyes; Humanity is not smart enough to work as a team and save the world with canvas, rice, and potatoes.





























Three.
Between classes, you spot the two boys that make your weekends less empty.  These are friends of yours.  One of them pulls your hair, one gives you a high five.  This is apparently a form of kindness that you enjoy when the days are okay.  You flash a dead smile and say hello.  This seems to happen every day.  Some days, you even give a dead giggle and mess with their hair.  Other days, dead smiles work best.  Sometimes, you wonder what you would do without those boys.

How could drama class kill you in such a way that you want to smile all the time?  How could you let yourself smile while 25 percent of that small classroom broke 1000 promises; Those promises that had to do with a great friendship.  Now, they hate you more than you know.  How can you cope?  Even if humanity did love you, would you enjoy their presence?

Its time for lunch.  This is your least favorite time, but the person you look forward to is who you speak to before lunch- the boy in your class who really gets it.  Everything you say, you know he’ll understand.  Associating with him is like speaking to yourself, but better.

“Maybe he’s like you.  Maybe he has a real personality.”  “Yes Dorothy, he is just like me.”

You hate this.
“Stop sitting alone.  Move.” 
“I’m sorry, Dorothy.  I just can’t.  I have to die.  They want me to die.  They want me to rot.  They want me alone.” 
Feeling dense and small, Dorothy scoffs at you once again.  She plans to ignore you for the rest of the lunch period and now, you really are alone.  You really hate the lunch cliques and the hatred for you.  People refuse to look at you.  The rumors have gotten that terrible. 

There are boys who started the hell that you live in, remember?  They were your friends.  They were your friends.  They were your friends.  You made a mistake, though.  A mistake that is up to your own imagination; now they hate you.  Now the rumors won’t stop.  These boys were your family.  They were your friends.  They were your friends.  These rumors wont stop.

You repeat: “I am not bipolar.  I am not insane.  I am not a cutter.  I am not a whore.”
Maybe if you tell yourself a mixture of the truth and lies, they will believe you soon.
Listening to this, she finally speaks:
“What we know is way different than what they think, Jacalyn.”
Now your frustration melts from the back of your brain to your eye sockets.  You continuously play with the bangs in front of your face to cover your eyes. 
“Stop trying to hide a waterfall with a few strands of hair.”

You have to hide.  You walk away from the lunch table.
So you end up hiding in an unordinary place.  This place is where your least favorite teacher roams.  You unexpectedly sit in a desk far away from her and cry.  This cry is the loud kind- the kind that you cry when you are hurting on the inside.  Her sympathy is pathetic, yet soothing.  Hearing random stories about mothers helps none of the issue, but makes you laugh at the uncertainty in her voice.  This causes a better mood for both of your frustration-yours and Dorothy‘s.  Thank you, least favorite teacher. 






















Four.
Seminar is the most social time.  This is where you text and get away with it.  You text the few girls that you associate with and the boy from youth group.  The girls are the only girls that have minds rather than empty tin boxes full of make-up and gossip.  They are the ones that you can speak to about any problem, but you are not sure if they really get it.  Maybe they do, or maybe they are just good listeners.  You wish that you talked to them more often.  Why do they have to be schooled at different places?  The boy from youth group is someone that you talk to for giving and receiving advice.  He’s a great friend that you speak to once or twice a week.

Those people are the kind that get you through days like these.

P.E. seems to be the highest point of your day.  I guess bowling isn’t so hard.  Eating French fries fills up the 2 days of an empty stomach, although, you only eat a few.  The rest are destroyed by a herd of young boys who fill up their bellies like never-ending holes.

You lose your bowling game.
Now you hate bowling.
How is it that you hate the things you cannot do, hate the things you can do, and love the things that you are completely blocked from? 
Dorothy doesn’t even know the answer of that question.

Last block is your least favorite teacher once again.  You give her a Gary Jules CD as a “birthday present”.  She just immediately gave me student of the month for being so “kind” to her.  Kindness must be crying over a shoulder and handing a person a CD.  She loved the CD.  Maybe she’ll realize that the folk music she listens to blows.

“You’ll be okay, Jacalyn, right?”- Mrs. Least Favorite.
No answer.

“You should have said something.”  “I didn’t want to lie.  I think she deserves that much at this point.”

Maybe this class doesn’t always have to be so terrible?


Five.
You get out of 5th block early in order to go to an “appointment”. 
Counseling isn’t something to look forward to, but it’s a lifestyle that you “needed” to take.
Its nothing special, really.  You talk about the day, the week, the moment, whatever.  Then you schedule even more appointments.  That’s how it works.

No appointments this week. 
No appointments next week.
No appointments the week after that.
I’m going insane without my counselor already. 
Dorothy is going to kill me.

Now you are home.  Home is a word that Dorothy does not like.  You don’t like it much either, but Dorothy wants to kill the word and it’s definition.


Home: (noun) 1. The place where the black hole that stands next to your heart hurts the most.
          2. The place where you would least likely be.
          3.  Hell.














Six.

There is a night for every day.  The night is the only time meant for change.  Tonight, maybe you’ll go across the street.  Maybe your love will come into town, presenting himself at a random time to say goodnight to your fears.  Maybe one of the few friends of yours will call you to chat.  Maybe a sixth grade walk will cheer you up.  One of these days, the endless time that you are awake will help you to sleep through the endless times that you are awake. 

Tonight, you went across the street.  You do this only once or twice every two weeks and enjoy these trips more than anything.  The boy with the most common sense lives in this blue building.  It is sort of a robin egg blue, but a little darker.
He is your best friend, but you are not his.  He’s out of school and you are in your first year of high school.  You are surprised that he isn’t annoyed of you.  When you first met, he told you he liked you.  Then again, he also told you that he likes crazy people.  He is one that you truly love.  The kind of love that you give to friends.  This love is the kind that you truly can feel ringing throughout your body.  You love this boy.

You have the feeling that he doesn’t enjoy your presence as much as you enjoy his, but it doesn’t matter.  He is one to tell you never to take vibes to heart.

You think he makes you sane at some angle. 
You think he makes you think
too much
and you like it.

Your night ends at 9:02pm.  Happy and satisfied, you go home with the real smile of the 24 hours of this day- Wednesday, June 11th- the most important day of your life.







Seven.
You talk on the phone for hours with your love. 
You love him, you love him, oh yes, you love him. 
This is the night to make sure he knows that. 
This is the night that he needs to know how amazing he has been for almost a year. 
You’ve never been so certain that you love him. 
He is the only one for you. 
You thank him, you thank him, you thank him for being your all. 
You hang up with the vocal sight of a few tears from him. 




























Eight.
You begin to write eleven letters:
one to your love,
one to the boy across the street,
one for the people that hate you so much,
one for the boy at youth group,
one for the few girls that you associate with,
one for the boy in your class that really gets it,
one for the teacher with your middle name for a last name,
one for the two boys that make weekends less empty,
one for your least favorite teacher,
one for your counselor,
and one for family-
all short and sweet.
This is the time to say goodbye.
















Nine.
The bathwater is running.  You set each of the eleven letters in a tidy fashion in front of the bathtub.  You go into your room and find a picture in a frame of a dog that you do not own and set it on the floor.  In your closet there is a random high-heeled shoe that was from your eldest sister’s prom years ago.  You pick it up and smash the picture frame.  You pick up the largest piece of glass and head back into the restroom. 
“You can’t back out on this now.”
The water is filled and you strip quietly and peacefully as if you were really going to bathe. 
You lay on the porcelain and breathe deeply as you lightly slice your torso down the middle of your body.  Now, from the bottom of your neck, to your waist, you have a large wound.  The nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach is aching as the black hole almost sucks up your organs.  This isn’t a pain that you haven’t felt before.  You have to do this.  So you slowly guide your head under the lukewarm water and smile one last smile.  As your heart stops beating, your muscles relax.  Your body releases urine and you lay there, firmly packed between the water and the porcelain.
You can feel this starry night crying out to you in fear as your spirit begins to whisper:
“My immobile body lies firmly on the porcelain
As I look at this filth- my disturbing thoughts.
Moreover, I may think of these things to write down;
These things that I vowed to never say aloud.
This thought in my mind- in my bathwater;
It will never be gone- a continuous bacteria
Using every commodity to spoil my body
and the thoughts that persuade me;
That this really is a full body separation.”

Dorothy gets out of the bathwater.  She now leaves puddles of urine and dirt all over the carpet and angers the microscopic animals, yet she now gets the chance to live her life controllably through her spirit.  You are gone and she is happy.  She is invisible, as you were.  She is empty, as you were.  She is alive, as you were.  You know she really will make the best of this.
“Thank you, Jacalyn.”
“You are welcome.”


The letters:
Dear my love,
I love you more than you know
And you should always stay happy.
Smile for me.

Dear the boy across the street,
I think you know everything about the world.
I think you think you know that.
I truly love you as a friend. 

Dear the people that hate me so much,
Was this the day that you were waiting for?

Dear my teacher with my middle name for a last name,
Thank you for being my best teacher friend.
Thank you so much.
Thank you for being there for me to speak with.

Dear the boy at youth group,
Thank you for being a light in my life.
You are an amazing advice giver.

Dear the few girls that I associate with,
You have amazing minds.
Keep them.
I love you so much.

Dear the boy in my class that really gets it,
Thank you for actually knowing what I’m talking about.
You are a great person.
Never give up.

Dear the two boys that make weekends less empty,
Thank you for making me smile. 
I’m going to miss messing with your hairs.
The little things meant a lot to me.

Dear least favorite teacher,
You helped me more than you know.

Dear Counselor,
Thanks for attempting to keep me alive.

Dear family,
I’m sorry for giving up.
I truly do love you all.
I know you loved me as well.
I just felt that I was a heavy weight
And I’m glad I’m off your chest.