*~*Silent Tears*~*

Ad 2:
2005-05-18 18:32:48 (UTC)

My tragedy

Hey all! Well I was writting a paper for school (yeah I
know, a first) and well I think this is the best one I
have ever written in my life. It is a crative tragedy,
but well it is depressing, but true in the manner of the
fact that it shares an important message. This is not
supposed to show the way things are in my life, or
anything like that, so people don't worry. It was based
on some of my emotions, but that was before, not now,
mostly, and that part I am working on, so yeah, I am not
hinting I am going to kill myself or anything, just so you
all know. I just wanted to post it for reading interest
and for me to remember. Anyway, here it is! Enjoy! Oh
yeah, some of the names in this might seem familar, but
well they were the first that came to mind, so don't read
into it too much.

The Single Selfish act of the Selfless

High school is often thought of as a place of decision-
making and a crucial point in human growth; simply because
it takes place within the confines adolescence. These
four years of schooling occur during the point where a
person is both a child and an adult, but yet neither one
at the same time. This age of transition is often
accompanied with its own set of trials and problems that a
person must face to rise to adulthood, and away from
childhood. As a result, teenagers have been stereotyped
and are almost expected to be moody, independent, or
depressed in their behaviors. Teenagers are often
considered rebellious, argumentative, confused, and
misunderstood. Yet somehow, they are always expected to
turn out okay in the end, to bridge their gap of confusion
and pass their tests to adulthood. Few people realize
that these behaviors might be the only way that a prideful
teenager is capable of asking for help and guidance. Few
even venture to imagine that the teenager won’t win their
fight on their own, and will be left as a casualty on the
battlefield. But then of course there are always those
stories and rumors of teens gone bad enough that
authorities get involved, bad enough that it costs
something and something that might be themselves. People
hear those stories and sigh, and feel remorse for the
situation and whoever is involved, but then continue on,
rarely affected enough to change. This is fatal mistake
of our society; we are so interested in others’ lives, and
are quick to reprimand others’ mistakes, while in reality
neglecting our own in similar circumstances. This
blindness to truth has cost me the life of my little
sister. I had to attend the funeral of a beautiful girl,
who should be standing and laughing and talking with all
her friends this very moment, but is not.
“We are gathered here together to mourn the loss of an
individual who has passed on from our world. Amanda Lynn
was a dear friend, a respected sibling, an honest
daughter, a strong student and . . .” that was all I
heard. As shameful as it might be to leave a funeral, I
did because it would had been even more inappropriate for
me to stay. I ran out of the service with my hands
covering my face, now wet with the salt of tears. As I
fled the room, the wave of heads turning in my direction
only echoed the soft rustling of my black dress. I ran
straight through the large wooden doors of the funeral
home chapel and into the surrounding burial ground. I
kept running through the burial ground, my feet sinking
into the damp ground and reluctantly rising from the muddy
earth as I continued my fast pace toward my destination.
I didn’t consciously know what I was searching to locate,
I just understood that my feet would continue to go
forward until I had obtained it.
At long last I found my destination, my little sister’s
gravesite. I walked cautiously over to the strangely deep
hole that would shortly clamp its cold fingers tightly
over her body. I went up to the grave area and sat down
on the wet ground, in my dress and all. It mattered
little if this dress was spoiled and I am sure one can
imagine that the condition of the dress was the furthest
thing from my mind at that time. Amanda’s body, itself,
was still lingering inside the chapel where it was viewed
before the ceremony began. I remember walking up to it
myself and softly touching her stiff lifeless hand, only
to draw back seconds later at the iciness of her thin
fingers. I shuddered at the memory of the touch and at
the thought of her remaining in this spot in the ground
for the rest of time, alone and empty. I remembered
reaching down to Amanda’s lifeless arm once more and
tracing tens of purple scars that lined her arm, where she
had been cutting herself. I put my hand to my puffy red
face, and wiped away the wetness that had again dripped
from my eyes and traveled down my cheeks as I starred down
at the ground before me.
I surprised myself when I realized that my tears were not
the tears of sorrow that is normally expected at such
events, but on the contrary were those of anger and
perhaps even hatred. Though I didn’t want it to be true,
I knew that I hated Amanda. I hated her for doing this to
my parents, and her friends, and everyone who loved her.
She was so stupid to do it, to kill herself, so stupid.
She had so much to live for and would be graduating high
school next year, accept that she is not. What right did
she have to do that? I couldn’t think of any greater
selfishness than for one to take their own life. I
remembered the phone call from my mother, about a week
before the funeral. I remembered her choked voice that
was exhausted from so little sleep and such a large burden
of stress and pain. I remembered all the pausing of my
mother stopped to collect herself before she continued to
speak of the horror of finding my little sister bleeding
to death in the upstairs bathroom of my family’s home. I
could hear the ambulance sirens in my head when my mother
told me how Amanda had been rushed to the hospital,
already unconscious from blood loss, and how she died on
the way there, in my mother’s arms.
I stood up, feeling selfish about leaving my mother and
father in the funeral by themselves, to cope alone.
However, I also couldn’t help but feel a twang of guilt
when I sat there in the funeral room with so many people I
didn’t know. They were all from her world, all weepy eyed
and sorrowful because Amanda was gone. I truly missed her
as well, or at least I thought I did. However, I couldn’t
forgive her. Her death was unfortunate and caused much
suffering to my family and for that I was disheartened,
but as for her personally, I was not completely sure where
I stood. I returned to my hometown for the explicit and
sole purpose of attending Amanda’s funeral, otherwise I
would have had no business retuning there. I felt so
strange and out of place back in the world of my childhood
that I left several years ago. I graduated from the same
school she attended, and took classed with the same
teachers she had, in this very same town. And then I
left. I went on with the rest of my life and became
successful in college, majored in journalism, and begun
dating the man of my dreams. In most ways, I left my
family behind. At that point, I was not entirely sure
whether I knew Amanda any better than I knew the preacher
who performed the ceremony.
We had tried to keep in touch by emails and phone calls,
and other similar forms of modern communication, but the
idea of long distance relationships not lasting came into
play during this time. Both sides became rapped up in our
own world of events and schedules that writing and calling
on another became a burden and right up there with
homework on my list of things to accomplish each week. Of
course this forced communication did not remain for long,
and soon after ended all our ties completely. I ended up
staying at my college campus took part time classes and
part time jobs to get by for the entirety of the last
three years. Occasionally there was a card sent on a
birthday, or a package at Christmas, however these were
strangely formal and a bit forced from both sides, except
for Amanda.
I remember all the emails I had received from her that
gave me updates on her life, and asked me millions of
questions concerning my own life. Most of the letters
were about her high grades and success in her countless
activities that she busied herself with constantly. It
was apparent that she was trying to follow my pathway
through high school. I was indeed very proud of her, but
after some time the reports became more tedious, and I
become bored reading them, so I would often reply to her
letters with a “good job,” or “keep it up,” type of
response without actually reading her comments to me.
These simple replies seemed to satisfy her most of the
time, or at least until she wrote to me for help, and
never got any. Of course, I was not awear that she had
written to solicit my help until several weeks after she
had begun to do so. She continued to write and I
continued to send artificial answers, until I got her
final email. She had titled this one, “Goodbye,” in bold
lettering so I would read the entry for once, instead of
alleged job that I had done for the past two and a half
years. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a copy of
that email from Amanda to me, not to long before. For the
first time that day, genuine tears of sorrow at the loss
of my sister spring from my eyes as I read over the
letter’s content.
I am appalled in discovering your trickery in the
answering of my letters. I was not aware that the matters
of my life were such trifles to you. However that being
the case I would think I had earned your honesty in saying
so, that I might cease in wasting my time composing letter
that will never be read. You will no longer be burdened
with the continual weight of unopened letters because
there will be no more. Forgive me for boring you to such
a great extent that you wouldn’t even bother to read my
letters. I presumed that you would be interested in our
family’s lives here, and might want to still feel
connected to the family, even at such a great distance.
It would seem that I presumed wrong, because your only
real joy and love isn’t in this life at all, but rather
the new one that you have spent the last three years
constructing. I truly wish you the best with that, and I
love you still, even as the knowledge of your actions rips
me at the heart. Amber, I really needed to count on you
this time, for help. I am the little sister, and I am not
as strong as you. I can’t find success in high school to
the degree that you were able to do so, and I really
needed your advice on how I could improve. I know our
family doesn’t matter to you anymore, but well, I was
hoping in my heart that I was wrong, but a vain and empty
hope it has been for these years.
Until we meet again,
I stared blankly down at the paper in my hand, with its
ink running; the effect of tears and rain combined was too
much of the small printed black letters. It was only
then, that I became conscious of the fact that it was
raining. I felt my leg collapse under the weight of my
sorrows. Again the truth of this letter cut me to my very
soul, as I wept bitterly on the now very soggy ground.
Now, down to the level of the earth I was able to view the
contents of the pile that was meant to be buried with
Amanda. It contained several pictures, certificates,
perfect report cards and a book. I reached for the book
first, only because its identity was unknown to me. I
flipped open its pages to realize that it was a journal,
written on black pages is fine silver pen. It had been
many years, but I still could identify the handwriting as
Amanda’s. The pages already started to feel damp in the
rain, so I picked the book up and walked over to the
safety of a weeping willow tree, feeling its long
sorrowful branches accept me under its shelter. I sat
down on a bench under the tree, and flipped thought the
journal. It started out with similar to all teenage girl
diaries, talking about boys, sports, parties, and a of
course quite a bit more concerning boys. I smiled to
myself as her accounts brought back so much memories of my
life, but not only that. I could picture all these events
happening with the Amanda I knew and loved so well being a
part of them. I could see her flirtatious smile, and her
quiet tears. I read about her problems with school
classes, and difficulties with friends. It hurt me to
know that I could have been her diary, she could have been
telling me all of this, I could have related and we could
have grown so close. My tears were streaming faster down
face, and I made no effort to stop them. I continued to
flip through the pages of Amanda’s journal, loving every
moment of finally getting to know her, but yet wondering
what could have ever caused her to kill herself. The
hours drifted by as I contentedly read the story of my
sister’s life, suppressing the guilt that kept threatening
to overpower me. Amanda was such a great person, so kind
to others and giving them everything that she had. She
always did everything to make everyone’s life that much
better; however, it was a huge burden for such a young
person to bear. I do not understand how she was able to
do it all, and still live through all the complications of
high school. I admired her so much for that, but I do not
understand how she could have done it, and then I saw that
she couldn’t. Then the entries got darker and stranger
losing Amanda’s sweet happiness. She started talking
about everyone’s problems, and how she had to fix them, as
though she had gone into overdrive and didn’t know how to
get back into control. I was struck hard when I
discovered an entry about my parents, who had gotten a
“I don’t know how to stop Mom and Dad from
fighting, I want them to stop. I just don’t know what
more there is to do, because now they are almost asking
one another for a fight or trying to start one on
purpose. It isn’t Dad’s fault, Mom is cheating on him,
it’s horrible, and I don’t know how she could do that to
him. Dad had his mistakes, but well Mom kept him under
control, and brought out the good in him, until she gave
up on him. How can love die so easily after it had been
aflame for so long? Dad’s not sober anymore, and I don’t
know if I can say what happened even here, because then
that would require admitting the event's truthfulness to
my own self. I was out with some friends Friday night,
and I can home around 11:30, to see my Dad beating my
mom. I in and screamed at him to stop, but it was like I
wasn’t there. I ran in front of him, to stop him from
hitting Mom, but it was like he didn’t notice, because he
started hitting me instead, yelling at me. It was only
later that night that I found out that my mother had told
my Dad about Jared, her boyfriend. And well, Dad did not
take it well. Dad was incredibly drunk while he was
hitting me, I could smell it on his breath. I was lucky,
Mike came back to my house about a half an hour later to
give bring in my purse, which I had forgot in is car. He
saw what was happening, and he stopped Dad. They fought
for a while, and that was it for me, I snapped right
there. Mike won, and came over to me, trying to ask me
what had happened I think, but I couldn’t hear him. I
vaguely realized him picking me up and bringing me to his
car. He brought me to his house and I spent the weekend
there, but no, it was not romantic. Mike is my boyfriend
yes, and I loved him to death, but that weekend he was
like the big brother I didn’t have. He made me go to the
school counselor on Monday, and she made me write this
down. It feels better I guess, but I really don’t know.
I am going to go live with Kelly and her family for a
while, until things are sorted out. Incase I ever forget,
Kelly is my best friend. I think that is all I am going
to say for the present. Until another time.”
This entry killed me inside, because I couldn’t
believe that something like this could happen to my baby
sister, and I couldn’t believe I wasn’t there for her.
The worst part was that this entry was one of so many.
There were so many entries that were crying out for help
and I could only assume that many of these entries had
been written to me as emails as well. There were entries
about her friends trying to kill themselves, entries about
run ins she had with drugs and alcohol, and entries about
how much she hated herself. And then there were the
entries about cutting. I “I want to cut so badly, it
feels so good, but I know I shouldn't. I’ve done it
before. It’s really like the emotional escape. It just
becomes too much after a while, and I just, yeah. Now it
is so addicting. It’s like a self-afflicted drug. Wow
that is a depressing view on things. I know I sound like
a freak, yippee! Still thinking about suicide, but trying
to reason with the idea.” Then I read entries about
Amanda going to see a counselor, and Amanda wrote about
what the counselor said to her. “Janet [the counselor]
says I need to stop blaming myself for the actions of
others, or events and circumstance that I can’t control.
She says that I am trying to take the problems of the
world on my shoulders, and it is destroying me, because I
beat myself up when it doesn’t work out. She calls
cutting self abuse, but I really don’t care, not at all.
Cutting is my emotional high, my reason for living.
Cutting makes life bearable again, just for a little
while, and besides the scars don’t look too bad. Even
Mike said that he was getting used to them, however I
think that I just his way of trying to show me that he
still loves me.” In effort to further emphasize my point
of this article, I want to share with the readers of this
newspaper, Amanda’s last entry in her diary. I c
“Everything is eating me up inside. I
just can't do it anymore. I know my life doesn't seem bad
from the outside, but it is killing me. I have nothing
left; I have nothing more to give. Nothing matters
anymore, not school, or home, or sports, or life or
anything. It really doesn't mean anything anymore. I am
done, done with it all. People may miss me, or they may
not, I really don't care. People say I am ill, they say I
need to take steps to get better. Every second is painful
to live, and it is a struggle to keep breathing. I am
falling, and I can't stop, I am shaking and I can't be
still, I am crying and I can't stem the flow, I am
surrounded by people, but yet I have never been so
alone. I have nothing more to give, nothing more to
say. This is it, this is all, there is nothing left of
me. Call me dramatic, or attention seeker, or liar, or
anything else. I DON'T CARE! I really don't. All my
promises are broken, images shattered, voice stolen, eyes
swollen shut, mind dying, all is doing away, and I stand
cold, naked in my darkness.”.
Most of Amanda’s entries for the last year, where
similar to the excerpts I have inserted in this article.
This article as been a painful one for me to write, or
rather compile, after all this is Amanda’s story. As a
journalist, I have heard about terrible events and have to
create a write up about them. I have seen so much
darkness in this world that I started to not be phased by
it in the same way. All I could identify was more
material for articles or another sob story that needs to
be written for tomorrow’s issue. I began to forget that
these sorrowful events are as real as my hands are in
front of me on the keyboard. It is only now that I can
truly comprehend the actuality of these circumstances and
glimpse the horror of the fact that ever day around the
world people are doing this to themselves. It is easy to
turn a blind eye to the darkness and shadows of life, and
to pretend that they are not a part of us. Living this
lie, is so much easier than forcing yourself to except the
truth that life can not be lived alone, and people need
each other to survive. There shouldn’t be martyrs in this
world like Amanda that give up everything they are to
benefit others, until they no longer can. People
shouldn’t feel like they are so alone in the world, and so
unloved that the harm themselves, just to know that they
are still living. There shouldn’t be people that think
their lives are such wastes that the only possible
conclusion is to end them. But there is. Circumstances
like Amanda’s are everywhere, waiting for the blind to
open up their eyes to the truth around them. That is our
world’s sorrow, will you stop the tragedy?

*~*Silent Tears*~*