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About BehindGreenEyes

  • Birthday 01/04/1993

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  1. Tides Crashing Over My Head

    Writing is my thing. It's a terrible opening line, but it's the truth. I've been writing since I was twelve; it had the power to calm me, to take me away and make sense of the mess inside my head. Twelve is when the depression started and for the longest time I couldn't figure out what had caused it. I remember thinking that there was this big, dark chunk of memory that I couldn't pull up to the surface. I remember being so angry at myself because I had no reason to be depressed all the time. I was twelve and the child in me had stopped coming to the table; she was gone. So I would hurt myself and that I could deal with. Physical pain made sense, it gave my heart a reason to hurt. It makes sense now. I repressed the memories, I kept them locked down so deep they couldn’t make themselves known to me. But my heart knew…I didn’t know what was causing the pain, but that didn’t stop it from happening. Now here I am, 7 years later, and because of one Sexual Assault Seminar the whole damn ocean is crashing in on me. It was just supposed to be for extra credit, a couple bonus points for Psych, no big deal. I didn’t know it was going to drown me. I didn’t know it was going to hold my head under the water until I had no choice but to breathe in those memories. I just didn’t know. And I feel like I’m twelve again, because this anger is burning a hole in my throat and I can’t talk about it. You think you’re lonely when you’re a kid, because you had no one to talk to, but it wasn’t loneliness like this. At least then I didn’t know why I couldn’t talk to anyone, but now…I just feel so incredibly alone. And scared. I’m 19 and I shouldn’t have to convince myself to get up in the morning. I shouldn’t have to worry if I’ll even have the concentration for next semester. I shouldn’t avoid mirrors, people, food. Writing was my thing. But I can’t write about this. Sure, I can blog and feel like the 12 year old on LiveJournal all over again, but it’s not writing. It’s venting. It doesn’t have to power to silence the demons and wash away the pain like ink dripping off a page. It just doesn’t. So I’m drowning…the tides are crashing over my head and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. -J