Chapter Three - Let’s Play A Game Of Society Says
Society says….you’re ugly if you don’t wear a size 00 and look like an angel. I say…wear what fits and strut what you have. Society says…BOOBS AND ASS! BOOBS AND ASS! BOOBS AND ASS! I say…FLAT! FLAT! FLAT! You don’t need your boobs pushed up to your chin to be considered pretty. And you don’t need an ass like Kim Fucking Kardashian to look good either. If you got curves, you got curves. If you don’t, you don’t. Whether you’re ninety pounds or three hundred pounds, to me you’re beautiful. I always find one beautiful thing in every person I meet. Their hair, their clothes, their smile, their eyes, whatever it is, there is always something. But the two most beautiful characteristics of any person are always their smile and their heart. If you have a beautiful inside, you are automatically gorgeous. A beautiful face means nothing if you don’t have a beautiful heart to match it. You don’t have to look like those girls on the runway to be considered beautiful. Beauty is all the all the little things people notice added together. I always say beauty is internal, not external. Obviously a person can have one or they can have both. Either way, a person still has one beautiful quality about themselves. Don’t let people get you down and make you insecure. No one has the right to make you feel inferior. Do not ever second guess yourself. Take compliments. Embrace insults. Be yourself all the time and love it. Forget how society tells you to act and think and look. Feel free to change your style, but don’t ever change yourself. Especially on account of someone else. If you want to change yourself, make sure it’s really for you and no one else. If you want to change it HAS to be for you or you won’t be happy with it. Be you. No matter what.
Wear what you want and don’t give a flying crap about what people think. It doesn’t matter what you look like. Wear what you want. If someone makes fun of you for it, don’t listen to them. Don’t let it get to you because it doesn’t matter. Okay? When people make fun of you it’s because they want it to hurt. They want to know their words had some effect on you. Don’t ever let them get that satisfaction. If they see it doesn’t bother you, they have no reason to be mean to you. It’s important to stay confident. It’s important to stay happy with yourself. You are you and there is only one of you. As of right now, you are an original. Do you want to die a copy? Or do you want people to remember you for the independent person you are? Just because society tells you what’s “in” at the moment doesn’t mean you have to wear it. Marva Collins once said, “Imitation is suicide.” If there is anything you take away from reading this book, let it be that. Remember it always. Imitation is suicide. Imitation is suicide. Imitation is suicide. Stay true to you. Stay true to the person you are. Don’t copy styles because it’s what guys like or it’s what your friends are wearing. Don’t sell yourself short to get the attention of others. Do what you love. Wear what you love. Say what you love. Don’t be afraid to have your own opinion. It’s not a sin to be original. It’s okay to not look like every other God damn girl on the planet. It’s also not important to be the skinniest, funniest, smartest, or prettiest. Because one day, someone will love you for you. So stay true to the person you are because someone out there loves it even if you don’t. Imitation is suicide.
Society says scars are unattractive. I say scars are only a reminder. Of where you’ve been. Of why you were there. Of why you’re not there anymore. Of how you felt. Of who you were. Of why you want to change or have changed. Very few self-harmers can stop cutting on their own. They rely on their friends, family, or their hobbies to help them through. I know I relied on my friends and hobbies to help me stop, but that’s only because I was too afraid to tell my family. Hell, I still am. That’s why most people don’t date other people with scars. Too much baggage. They don’t want to be relied on. And they don’t want to deal with the drama of a self-harmer. So they stay away. Even if you’re recovered. I don’t mean to place stereotypes or come across as rue, but most people truly do not want to date someone with scars. Personally, if I see someone with scars I think strength. Maybe it’s just from experience, or maybe it’s just me. I never wanted to cut because I wanted to kill myself. I don’t think I ever really wanted to kill myself. I think I thought I did. However, I cut to feel something. I cut to let people know that I had so much pain inside me that I needed to make it physical because there was just too much of it. The pain let me know I could feel something. I was numb on the inside, other than my anger and sadness. I cut and suddenly, I felt something. Not relief or anger or sadness. But pain. And that pain took away the sadness for a little bit. Just long enough for me to realize what I’d done and hate myself for it. I know now that to be strong, you have to be weak. You just have to. So now when you see someone with scars think of this: they were weak once, realized they couldn’t live like that, and now they’re strong. Or think of it this way, they’re still weak and looking for someone to numb their pain so they don’t have to cut anymore. Strength is something you need to focus on. You have to think, how can I become strong? What will help me get there? Will cutting help me? Let me give you a hint, cutting doesn’t help. At all. It makes you hate yourself more that you probably already do. It take away the pain for a little bit. You need to focus on NOT feeling pain. You need to focus on happiness and forgetting the things that make you feel pain.
Do me a favor right now. Go find a mirror and stand in front of it. Strip down to your underwear. No matter what you look like, no matter if you’re a boy or a girl, do this now. Once you’re there, picture yourself scarred, bleeding, and scared. Picture people looking at you and talking about you. Picture being the guy/girl that no one wants to get close to. Picture yourself wearing long sleeves all the time just to hide your scars and imagine apologizing every time someone sees one of those scars. Or maybe you come up with a lie that sounds somewhat truthful. Imagine how differently you’ll be treated and how many friends you’ll lose. Can you picture that? Now put your clothes back n and don’t cut yourself. A little pain isn’t worth it. If you want to feel pain, then punch a wall or a dummy. It may not be as satisfying, but it’s safer. As a recovering self-harmer I know what it’s like to always feel the need to go back to the blade. Every time I need to feel better my first thought it to cut. But I don’t actually want to. I just want the feeling it gave me. Pain, with a little relief. Instead, I throw things or cry until I sleep. It’s not as satisfying and neither option is ideal, but it’s a better option than cutting. And let me tell you, I’d take exhaustion and a few broken things and holes in my walls over the pain from cutting any day. And you should want that too. You should want everything and anything except cutting. But you can’t bring yourself to stop because cutting is the only thing you know. But is it really worth it? Ask yourself that. And do not lie to yourself about it.
Society says cutting isn’t a big enough issue to be worrying about. I say people need to open their fucking eyes and see what words make people do. I can’t tell you how many people I know that think they’re fat. I won’t mention names, but too many people cut themselves because they hate the way they look. And if they aren’t cutting they’re either refusing to eat or throwing up what they did eat. Do you know why people hate the way they look? Because our society now frowns upon people who aren’t what they expect them to be. Words are strong. They hurt more than any weapon. If society said girls with size seventeen waists were just as pretty as girls with size two waists, then fewer girls would think they’re fat. II read the book “An Ordinary Man” by Paul Rusesabagina for school and throughout the book one hotel manager was able to talk army officials out of killing people. As he was doing this he was also attending to an entire hotel full of Tutsi refugees hiding from the Hutu’s who were killing them. Throughout the Rwandan genocide the only weapon Paul ever used was his words. He was able to seek out the weak spots in people and use them against them. He could easily read people. And it was fascinating to read about how a few simple words phrased the right way and spoken in the right tone could easily make someone walk away from killing another human. So if people can use words to stop other people from killing innocent outcasts, why can’t other people use their words to stop people who feel outcast from killing themselves? Isn’t it basically the same thing? Just with different people?
Society has this idea of a “perfect” family. Mom and dad both work, star athlete, brainiac daughter, blah, blah, blah. That’s bullshit. What fucking family is perfect? All of us have our ups and our downs. No family is perfect. So don’t try to make it perfect because there’s no possible way for that to happen. Families aren’t supposed to be perfect. They’re supposed to be a rollercoaster. In one episode of Supernatural, I remember one of the characters saying, “They’re supposed to make you miserable. That’s why they’re family.” Don’t try to be the A+ student or the star athlete. Do what you want to do and be happy with it. Do what you love and forget about everything else. Be the person you were born to be. Be the person you want to be. Everything will fall into place after that. Families fight. They get on each other’s nerves. And sometimes that makes people cut. Like I said, focus on you. If your parents are arguing, don’t yell, don’t cry, and don’t cut. Find your escape and use it. Whatever it is. For me, it was running away. It was giving up. I didn’t want anything to do with my family when they got into their moods because then I was stuck as the peacekeeper. Mom would complain to me about Dad, Dad would complain about Mom, and Rich would mimic both of them when we were in the car without them. But going to my friend’s house helped. And they all understood when I told them I needed to get out of the house. My dad’s humor is sometimes a little too much for me to bear and then my brother has to go and repeat what he says like he’s a fucking parrot. I guess we know who he looks up to. Having two people insult you is the worst. But it sucks even more when those people are family. Their jokes were always hurtful even though they were just jokes. Both of them never seemed to understand the word stop. It’s not their fault, like I said, it’s mine. In fact, I usually participate in their joking, but back in Freshmen year it just stopped being funny and starting being hurtful. I had more issues on my mind than what degrading or hurtful name I’d call my brother or my dad and I guess neither of them had the same issues on their mind. Neither of them woke up every morning with an ache in their gut a brain that would argue with itself all day. Neither of them had to worry about having a panic attack or someone seeing their scars. They didn’t have to wake up having to watch they ate or convince themselves it was okay to eat. They didn’t wake up depressed or always feeling the need to cry. They didn’t worry about when they’d cut next or why. They woke up; spent the day in a place they hated, and came home happy to be there. But I came home wanting to crawl into bed and cry until I soaked my pillow completely. I came home wanting to feel the blade on my skin even if I didn’t bleed. I just needed to feel that pain. So even though my family’s sense of humor was sarcastic and hurtful, I blame myself for being too weak to handle it. I blame myself for tuning to the blade instead of turning to music for help. And no matter what, it’ll always be my fault and my choice and I’ll always have to live with it. So I’ll tell you now, don’t make that same mistake. Don’t let anyone get you down. Stand up to your family and their harsh jokes. Turn to something helpful when you need it. Not scissors, a razor, or any other type of blade. Tell your family what their jokes are doing to you. “If you’re being insulted often then it’s not all the other person’s doing. You’re got to either stop them or decide you can’t be hurt.” said Jim Beaver. The faster you make the decision the better. It’s a two way street. You could tell them to stop just as easily as you could let it hurt you. You need to stand up for yourself no matter what. Letting people walk all over is a waste of your time. Society says, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” I say, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can shape my reality.”
You are who you are, Don’t try to change that. You are beautiful no matter what you think. Not everyone sees it, but someday somebody will see it. Their opinion will be all that matters. Add if you don’t believe me I’ll tell you now that I’m somebody and I see your beauty, It’s kind of hard no to because your beauty just radiates. It’s like the sun peering through the clouds. It’s not hard to see.
I see her curls in my dreams,
Smooth wisps behind the clouds in the blue sky,
She laughs and the birds chirp,
Happy songs like the ones on her radio.
She’s no longer in our hands now,
But with Mother of Jesus in heaven.
I feel her smile down on me,
Like the warm rays of sunlight on my back.
Coleridge would say, Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,
I see you clear now,
Like I did when you could still steal air.
What happened?
You were gone so fast,
Like a summer-gusts birth and doom.
Now we are filled with sadness,
But sparks of confused joy,
When you allow us a peek at your angelic self.
Visit us more often,
Let me know you’re here,
Show me your beauty,
Let me forget you not.
the negatives chapter one part two
If you ask me, the whole idea of Barbie is stupid. I mean, realistically speaking, no one has that kind of body without some baggage behind it. Whether it’s an eating disorder or a sport or a medical condition, maybe even a diet, people don’t just look like Barbie. Why would you want to? To get guys? To feel pretty? Well there’s one problem with both those options. Havinga body like that to get guys automatically makes you a whore. Having a body like that to feel pretty means you’re either an attention whore or you’re crazy. Or so society says. You know what I say? Let’s change this fucked up society. We are society. Why can’t we change the ways people are viewed? Why can’t we use words to better ourselves instead of using them to hurt people? That sounds pretty good to me. How about to you?
Barbie has a selected group of friends. Friends that her “Creator” chose for her. Same for me. I am blessed to have the friends I currently have and I believe it was fate that brought us together. I would be absolutely no where with out the help of my friends. They were there through everything and I don’t know how to thank them for that. Every text of mine they answered with a kind response. Barbie may have friends, but not one of them honestly gives a crap about her. I realize they’re all plastic, but if they weren’t, do you think they’d help her out when she needed it most? I always thought that my friends wouldn’t give two shits about me or what I did with my life. I was dumb to assume that because they cared probably more than anyone else. I never really realized it until I really needed someone to be there for me. There was time when I honestly thought I was going insane. The first time I cut I enjoyed it. I hated myself for doing it, but I enjoyed physically harming myself. After the first time doing it, the second time wasn’t so hard. I still hated myself, but the cutting process became easier. Cry, breathe, slice, cry, hate myself. It became a routine. I suppose it was more of an addiction really. When I first cut I was on this anti-spasmatic medicine for my stomach which was also an anti-depressant. The medicine kept my stomach from my acting up, but brought out my depression to the point where I was basically suicidal. On the night I cut myself for the first time, I was sitting on my bed crying and feeling so angry with myself I honestly didn’t know what to do. My music was blaring and everyone in my house was busy. I looked over to my closet and remembered the sharp metal edges of the shelves in there. I’d cut myself plenty of times accidentally on them while trying to get out a shirt that was stuck or falling off the shelf. I knew how much they hurt and I also knew that using them to cut wouldn’t cut deep enough for me to bleed. So what was a depressed, 15-year-old girl to do? I got up from my bed, walked to the closet, and swiped my wrist across the sharp, metal edge of the shelf. I broke skin, but didn’t bleed. I didn’t want to bleed. Mainly because that would scare me, but also because then I’d have to explain it to my mom. I knew if she saw my puffy, red face she’d know it wasn’t an accident.
After I cut myself, I was shaky. I sat down on my bed and cried. I felt disgusting for having done that, but to me, there was no other option. I didn’t go right to my friends.I blogged about it, hoping they would see it and wonder what was wrong. They didn’t. But one person did. Her name is Bri. She was my best friend for a while and she always knew what was wrong. She texted me before anyone else and I didn’t tell her the truth. I told her I’d thought of doing it, but didn’t.
Eventually, I did tell my two best friends. First was Jess. She replied with kind words and that’s all I could have asked for from her. I never wanted to tell anyone because I immediately assumed that they’d tell me something was wrong with me. or I had issues. But Jess never said any of that. She listened to all my bitching and complaining and texts telling her I’d done it again. And each time she answered me with kind words. I felt bad for telling her so much, but I needed those kind words. Jess never treated me differently and she never told me I needed help. That was a gift.
The next friend I told was Billy. He has this ability to make me see the good in things, even though he has to point them out sometimes. I forgot how we got onto the subject but I said something about cutting myself and he replied with “You don’t seem like the type.” Oh, how he was wrong. (Yes, Billy, you WERE wrong. Admit it.) He didn’t know that he was wrong until a few days later when I finally told him. I casually brought up the subject because we were having one of those deep conversations we use to have all the time. I told him my reasoning was that if the whole world hated me, I could hate me too. That wasn’t the wrong explanation, but it wasn’t right either. At the time, that was the only way I knew how to tell him without sounding insane. I now realize that it was a whole bunch of self-loathing and pain that had bottled up inside me and needed to come out. I now realize that cutting was a physical release of pain. Billy didn’t text me a whole bunch of kind words. Instead he texted me a whole bunch of question about why I started and when. He always made me look at the big picture. His questions were never easy to answer. In fact, some I didn’t even answer because I couldn’t find the right words or the courage. I made him promise not to disappear on me because I needed him. I needed those questions. It was selfish of me to ask, but then again it was his fault for promising.
So to Orzo and Jesus, thank you both for being there for me and dealing with all my shit all the time. Thank you for the kind words and for making me feel alive when all I wanted was to be dead. Thank you for making me feel loved and needed. You guys were my inspiration to stop cutting and I could never repay you for that, but dammit I will try. Words cannot express just how much I love you two.
There were also two teachers who helped me stop cutting, one who knew about it, the other who didn’t.
The first teacher I told was Mr. Caruso. Carooster was my freshmen science teacher. He was an easily likeable teacher and I instantly knew I could trust him. Caruso was the third person to find out about me. I went to his room in the morning and i came right out with it. I said “I didn’t know where else to go with this, but I trust you so I came here. I cut myself last year.” He simply asked why, then told me that, by law, he had to go to my guidance counselor with it. And he did, of course. My guidance counselor had to tell my mom and that was nerve-wracking for me. I was taken out of school that day because I was considered a risk. I started seeing someone from the 211 Crisis Hotline that afternoon. Then later that night, Caruso called my house to check up on me. When my brother picked up, he didn’t say anything about me cutting, just that he wanted to check on me. My mom told my brother it was because I had a breakdown in school. I liked the fact that Caruso cared enough to call. Usually teachers would have waited until after class the next day to ask, but not Caruso. He never treated me differently, never gave me special treatment, and ever doubted that I could tell someone to “fuck off” when I needed to. And that was amazing. I liked that about him. In any other situation it may have been awkward, but Carooster acted like it never happened. I just feel bad that all that happened, and I still didn’t stop cutting. But his efforts to make me feel comfortable in his classroom were amazing and the best efforts I could ask a teacher to give. My thanks to you, Caruso. Because of you, my mom knows about it all and I’m seeing a therapist. And I hope that someday, you’ll be able to help another student the way you helped me.
The other teacher that helped me was Mr. Cianciolo. He never knew about me cutting. He helped my by the things he said. Photo was, without a doubt, the best part of freshmen year. Photo was something that interested me for years, so it was important that I liked the teacher and of course I did. His way of teaching was fast, but I got the hang of it fast. I was never really confident in the pictures I took for that class. I tried my best to remember everything he taught me, but I just couldn’t possibly remember it all.I was about to give up halfway through the course so I started getting lazy. I guess Mr. C noticed that. He tried to boost my confidence in anyway possible. He always managed to find something good in my pictures, and eventually so did I. I remember him looking me in the eyes once and telling me, “Come on Bek, you can do better than this. You’re a good photographer. Listen to me and you’ll be a great photographer.” That was an instant confidence booster considering C was a fabulous photographer. He could take pictures of just about anything. For him, there was no such thing as sky’s the limit. I had lost all faith in myself Freshmen year, but Mr. C saw it. Walking into his class could make me smile. Photo was the one class where I was in control. There was no one to tell me exactly what to do. There was just Mr. C telling me I had to work, even if it wasn’t for his class. There was just a calm feel to the room. I could do whatever I wanted. I was free. And I had a teacher that believed in me. Those were the three things I needed most, but I couldn’t get them on my own. I walked out of photo 1 with new found knowledge, higer confidence, and courage to hide my weaknesses. All of that because one teacher found the faith I’d lost in my myself for so long. He also gave me a new perspective on life. Mr.c always found something goof in even my worst pictures. That inspired me to go home and force myself to realize the beauty I had in me. It forced me to seek out the flaws I had and love them. Which is something everyone should do.
So thank you Carooster and Mr. C for helping me even though you didn’t know you helped me.
Chapter 2 - Save Me?
Happiness means different things to differnet people. For some it’s being surrounded by the people they love. For others it’s all the little things in life. For most it’s the sensation of knowing someone loves you. Of course this isn happiness for me as well, but it’s not the thing that makes me the happiest. Music is my sanity. Somehow people I don’t know are able to put all my thoughts into melody and lyrics. My favorite Mark Hoppus quote is “To fact that music can induce goosebumps, draw a tear, and connect people is one of my favorite parts of being humn” basicaly explains my view on music. People can invest themselves in muisc and everything comes together. Music can save people. Don’t believe me? Well, then I’ll tell you my story.
I remember how I got started listeningto the band that saved my life. I was watching Teen Nick and their music video started playing. The song was Poppin’ Champagne by All Time Low. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that music video, but it’s pretty fucking weird. These four guys party in a club with weird outfits, a ferret, and I’m pretty sure at one point they hump the floor. It’s not your typical music video, but it cuaght my attention for sure. And I guess that’s one of the main points of making a strange music video. It’s also one of the reasons they saved me. The song was fantastic, of course. So I decided to look up more of their music. All their videos were just as weird, but I was hooked. I started reading about them, I learned their names, watched all their music video and they’re other videos, and I download almost all of their songs. And in all of this, I realized that as long as their music was playing, nothing was quite as bad. When I had their music or videos playing I could smile. It was like for the few minutes they were playing the entire world was patched up. There were no wars, np hate, not a single bad thing out there. Not only did they repair the world, they repaired me. All my holes were patched, my sadness drifted, my pain subsided, and my anger simmered down. They gave me an “escape,” as Alex would say. So when I started cutting, that minute I could escape was the minute that saved me.
I became obsessed with All Time Low after I found them back in sixth grade. And thank God I did. The night I wanted to attempt suicide was the night that minute came in handy. While I was sitting on my bed sobbing, my iPod was on shuffle. I had scissors in my hangs and I was just sitting there thinking for a few minutes. My thought process was one of the worst I ever had. “If I cut deep enough and puncture a vein, I have 16 minutes before I bleed out. In those sixteen minutes, what songs would play? Would I stop it? Who would check on m? Would someone check on me? Who would walk into my room? Would I scream for help? Who would text me?” But I never once though, “Who would miss me?” With the scissors in my hands, I was just about to start sawing through my skin, when All Time Low’s song Lost In Stereo came on. I’m a strong believe in fate and I honestly beleive their song coming on was a sign to stop. I mean, waht are the odds that my favorite song by my favorite artist off my favorite album would come on when I needed it most? I put my scissors away and listened to the song. It was about a girl so lost in music that nothing else mattered. Nothing ever ranked a higher importance than music. She didn’t care what she had as long as she had music. And that girl was like me. Music has always been a passion of mine. I could listen to it non-stop. All day, every day. Within in three minutes and fourty seven seconds All Time Low had my teary eyesdried, my scissors away, and my voice belting out the notes like a tone deaf seal. I was dacing around my room, singing all their songs. Ever since that night, whenever I’m depressed, I just play their songs or watch their videos and everything is better. That escape is all I need. The four boys of All Time Low never failed to take my mind off stress, depression, and self-harm. I honestly believe Alexander Gaskarth, Jack Barakat, Rian Dawson, and Zachary Merrick saved my life. There are no words to descirbe the love I have for those four boys. I never expected them to mean so much to me, but there’s just something about them that makes me crazy about them. Whether it’s Jack yelling “I just want to fuck this burrito” or Rian’s glittered shorts, it doesn’t matter. Or Alex’s amazing lyrics and Zack’s few words here and there, these boys never fail to put a smile on my face and I’m glad it was them that saved my life.
After that I bought two All Time Low bracelets and I wear them everyday all day. That way when I have the urge to cut I look at my wrists and there’s Alex, Zack, Jack, and Rian telling me not to do it. Whenever I look at my bracelets I see their videos and hear their songs and I smile. And thinking of them makes the urge to cut fade. I believe Lost In Stereo saved me. But looking back, I feel I would never have had the guts to go through with it. I would have cut until I bled and that’s probably it. However, those four still saved my life. Maybe not from cutting, but they saved my from myself. And they still save me on a daily basis. Because they give me that minute to escape.They allow me to clear my mind and that’s exactly what I need.
Alex said,”Never underestimate a girl’s love for her favorite band. Never think even for a minute that she won’t defend them to her death. Becasue it’s not the guys that make that band her favorite. It’s the guys. It’s the gals. People whom of which she has interacted with thanks to that band. That band might have saved her life or just made her smile everyday. That band has never broken her heart and has yet to leave her. No wonder she finds such joy in her music.” And this quote is also very true, because I love the music but it’s also the fans that make this band my favorite. The love a couple thousand guys and girls have fir a few boys from a smalltown band that started from a badsement is inspiring. “Dedication takes a lifetime, but dreams only last for a night.” Thededication I have, andthousands of others have, is the reason this band candowhat they love. Dedication is tje reason these four guys can inspire people and save lives. It’s not only our dedication to them that keeps them going, but their dedication to us as well. Dedication is a two way street. I’ve heard some amazing stories about these four boys. I read one story about a girl who went to a concert and met Alex. She was a self-harmer and Alex saw her scars. Instead of asking why she did it, he simply looked at her and said “I love you.” She didn’t have time to thank him, but those three words meant the world to her. I think these four boys were born with the ability to be over empathetic. They all seem so loving and kind towards their fans even when they form a mosh pit on stage. They all love hearing their fans stories and how they tie into it. My story is All Time Low.
People ask me all the time why ATL means so much to me. I usually just tell them it’s because those boys are inspiring and I look up to them. I should tell them everything I just told you. Or one of myfavorite quotes from Alex. “Loving a band with all your heart is something you only understand when it happens to you. On the surface others can see it as a petty obsession, but they’ll just never know the feeling of putting so much effort into a few people on the other side of the world. It’s hard to explain it to them, the listening to song after song on repeat, the waits for new albums, the excitement and surreal sensation when you finally get to see them live. They don’t seem to understand why the lyric booklets give you as sense of comfort or why you paste photos of them all over your bedroom walls. And they can’t seem to understand why one band could matter to you so much. And you think to yourself, ‘Because they saved my life.’ But you say nothing. They wouldn’t understand.” Most people don’t get why/how a band could save someone’s life. I’ll explain. Like I mentioned before music is an escape. You can close your eyes and listen to a song and push your back against the lines of a measure while the sound of the notes float over your eyelids. Your favorite band will always be there for you. you can count on them for a laugh, a smile, a minute to escape. You can listen to a song by them and all of reality just starts to quiet down until it becoms a faint purr in the background. This band relates to you more than anyone else becausee they’ve been through it all. Even though thousands of other people love this band, it will never mean to them what it means to you. All Time Low opened my eyes with a few lyrics.No other words from any other person would have helped me. Now all I need to do is look down at my wrstsandI’m reminded of them. Simple things like this can be your way out. It’s a ladder to a better, higher place. If you’re a self-harmer or you’re depressed or you need an escape, find a band. Any band. Listen to their music, download their CDs, and learn everything you can about them.Invest all your time in them. They’ll be there for you no matter what. They’ll give you that comfort you need as well as time to be yourself. That band is yours. Music is so much more than just a band you can relate to. It’s life waiting to happen. It’s a door to finding yourself. Music is an expression of yourself. What you listen to, defines you. What music soothes your ears? Do you like other types? For me, it’s almost anything. When I’m pissed off I usually listen to sad or angry music. Stuff like A Day To Remember or any sad song. Maybe a little Avenged Sevenfold or something. Music is an expression because when you think about it, that music displays your personality. It shows people what’s hidden on the inside. I know that sounds weird, but think about it. When you listen to a certain band, don’t people lable you? Like people who listen to dubstep are usually labeled as hipster. And people who listen to metal are classified as emo or goth. People who listen to Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato and Jonas Brothers are considered to have bad taste in music. Am I right? Well, music does define you, but not like that. Music defines the parts of you that you try to hide. All the little secret obsessions come out with a quick flick through your songs. To me it doesn’t matter if you listen to dubstep, metal, classic rock, or former Disney stars. Music connects you to the world. It allows you to meet people who share common interests with you and enjoy something that makes a difference to you. That’s how music saves lives. For example, I LOVE All Time Low, as you know probably too well by now. But so does my twitter buddy, Darneil. He has a band of his own, which I support fully. He supported me when I really needed someone. Guess how we met. Through All Time Low of course. He clicked on a video I tweeted to all four guys. It was a video explaining everything I just told you. And he tweeted it to them too. Whether or not they saw it, I don’t know. But what I do know is that Darneil is now someone I talk to on a regular basis and he keeps me grounded almost as much as my best friends do. I may not know him in person, but I do know he means a lot to me and I can only hope I mean as much to him. Music brings people together no matter what type it is or who listens to it. It speaks the words you can’t speak yourself. I met someone I never dreamed of meeting, but I’m so glad I met him because that’s one more person to help me through all my issues. So thank you Daneil for finding me when I needed you to. Thank you for supporting me and always being there. Much love to you. <3
To me ATL is more than just four east coast kids with record deals. ATL is more than vocals, bass, guitar, and drums. ATL is a life line. Zack, Rian, Jack, and Alex are the voices I hear in m head when I’m upset. Their music rings in my ears, even if it’s not playing. Each member of All Time Low taught m a lesson. Alex taught me it’s okay to to have pride in the things I like and to take life day by day. Jack taught me to be myself and to smile everyday because life is too valuable to waste. Rian taught me you don’t have to be obnoxious to be noticed and sometimes its okay to be quiet. Zack taught me it’s okay to be friends with people who are nothing like you and you shouldn’t stop doing what you love to “fit in.” As a whole, All Time Low taught me to be confident, original, and dedicated. So instead of cutting, crank up the music. You might be surprised what you find.
When their music fills my ears, I’m no longer in pain or depression. No feelings inhabit me. I become numb. My brain focuses on the lyrics rather than the wanting to cut. i can sit and listen to the lyricss without m brain arguing with itself. Cut. Don’t cut. Cut. Don’t cut. The only thing I feel is Rian’s drums pounding in my ears, Alex’s voice belting out perfect notes, and Zack’s bass and Jack’s guitar strumming against my ear. All I hear is perfection. All I hear is my life line telling my body to keep my heart beating and my brain focused on the lyrics.
I’ve never met All Time Low or saw them in concert, but I still fell like I know them on a personal level. I get their tweets to my phone for a pick-me-up when I need it. Their picutres are all over my room so I smile when I see them. I watch “Straight to DVD” whenever I can and everytime I see it I find out more about these four outstanding guys. I’ve put my all into this band. I may not have been there from the start, but I’m there until the end. Putting your all into a band doesn’t make you obsessed or crazy. It might just be the way you survive every day. And that’s perfectly fine. If one band keeps you living, by all means go crazy with them. Learn as much as you can, watch their videos, read about them, post pictures and quotes all over your room, it’s okay. I’d rather be annoyed at how much someone talks about a band than be upset forever after finding out they killed themselves.
To my boys, thank you for being yourselves. To their fans, thank you for being their driving force. Without you there’d be no them and probably no me. Please keep making music and please stay yourself. Thank you for putting a smile on my face and for letting me know everything is and will be okay. Thank you for never listening to waht other people say about you and for being the best band ever. Thank you for the love you give to fans. You are some of the best fucking guys I have ever heard of. That means more to me than you will ever know
(Source: bekmariepoetry)
1 note #all time low #alex gaskarth #jack barakat #rian dawson #zack merrick
I am broken,
Looking to be fixed.
I’ve gorwn tired of tears,
And fractures in my confidence.
I am broken,
Looking to be saved.
Memories I once suppressed have resurfaced,
Haunting me as I live.
I am broken,
Looking for help.
I’m tired of travelling this road,
I long to detach myself from this cycle.
I am desperate,
Looking for rescue,
Will someone please help?
Will someone please understand?
suicide note was posted on http://playingtrack3.tumblr.com SAVE CHELSEA!
Human similarities to Barbie?
Well to start, we both have “manufacturers,” I guess you could say. The difference is that I came from a loving couple not some factory in china or wherever Barbie dolls are made. My family is great, most of the time. My parents are…well..they’re my parents. I love them greatly I do, but sometimes I want nothing to do with them or this house. It’s not their fault in any way. It’s just sometimes that’s how I feel. I often feel like a burden on them. Like if I wasn’t born their lives would somehow be better or they’d be happier. Somehow their life would be amazing with their athletic son and two parents working a full time job. They’d have an amazing house and maybe be happier all around. I often think of this. Of how their life would be better. But I can’t change it now. So all I can do is think. I used to be the athletic one. I was a great soccer player and a pretty good dancer. I loved both sports dearly. I always enjoyed going to them. But now, it’s my brother that’s the athletic one. He’s the one who eats healthy and he’s the one that’ll probably escape the heart attack curse this family has. I envy the amount of energy he has. I envy his ability to stay away from junk food. I envy his ability to be himself. I could never do any of that. I could never have the amount of confidence he has in himself. And that makes me sad. That keeps me up at night.
it’s sad to think that I don’t know how to be myself. I don’t know who to trust or who to tell anything to. I mean everyone says best friends are forever, but that’s never true. I tell few people everything, including my parents, because I don’t like when people know too much about me.
My parents did a great job raising me. Even though I turned out to be a self-harmer and a pessimist. None of it was their fault. There was nothing they could have done. mostly because I never really told them everything. My mom found out about it once and I begged her not to tell my father. My four best friends and my science teacher knew about it. but they never really knew my entire story. Neither did I, considering it was changing day by day and minute by minute.
My dad has what my mom and I like to call male PMS. When he’s pissed off everyone knows it. He snaps at everyone around him and doesn’t stop sometimes for two days or even a week. That triggers my depression as well as my need to self harm. That’s when I want to escape. I don’t tell my mom that’s why. I just tell her I don’t want to be around this household while he’s pissed off. She never takes me away. She just talks to me. But I don’t want to talk. I want to leave.
Dad has a sense of humor that takes some getting used to. And as he’s getting older so is his humor. He doesn’t exactly know when to stop even though I tell him all the time. He never sees the way my face changes when he’s around. Don’t understand why he doesn’t see it. I’m not putting the blame on my dad. My brother is part of it too. Neither of them understand the word stop. I must have told them twice. BT no, they don’t listen. They go on and make fun. They go on and crack jokes. And for the longest time, it didn’t affect me. At all. In fact, I found it fun to respond to what they were saying. But something changed in me when I hit high school. Some switch in my brain changed and it was no longer fun to hear them make fun of me. But neither of them took the hint. Neither of them saw what it did to me. But I still don’t blame them. I can’t bring myself to blame them because they were jokes and I couldn’t take that. I’m not blaming them because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if they thought this was their fault. It was my decision. Not theirs.
My mom has this talent that other moms don’t have. She has this amazing ability to put herself in my shoes every now and then and understand what I’m going through. She can take the weight off my shoulders every now and then and no one knows how much that means. She can give me one pep talk, even if it’s only a few words, and I know I’m not alone. At least not at that moment. At that moment I have someone on my side. Someone who won’t leave me. Someone who loves me for all that I am no matter what. And in that moment, I’m not afraid. In that moment I feel I can do anything.
My mom and my dad spent their entire lives building me up, even with my dad’s odd humor and my mom’s ability to make me feel better. I love them both dearly and I hate that vie kept this such a secret from them. I didn’t want my mom to know about it and be upset. But I also didn’t want my dad to know about it and make jokes. I didn’t want anyone to know about it because that’s just who I am. I’m so sorry that I kept it secret, but I felt I had no other choice. You were already treating me differently, you were kinder to me, you were scared. You looked at me the same, but your voice had a lighter tone. It was like you were afraid to sound mean even for a second because you thought it might make me go cut again. And I couldn’t handle that mom. I couldn’t. So I did cut again, you just never knew because I didn’t want to be treated different. I didn’t want you to cut me some slack. I wanted you to have faith in me. I wanted you to know that I wouldn’t dare do it again. Both of you have spent your life putting me first and I’m sorry that I had to turn out like this.
My parents are the best things in my life. They’ve gone to every soccer game, every dance recital, every school event, every stepping stone in my life. They’ve supported me no matter what and I love them dearly. And none of this is their fault. And I sincerely hope they read this and believe me.
I remember when I was younger and we were re-doing my bedroom. We were painting the walls half blue and half white. The top half was white, the bottom blue. My dad was taking a break so it was just me and my mom working. I kept putting the blue paint too high so it overlaid into the white. Mom never got mad at me. She simply took her brush and cleaned up my mess, as usual. The whole time she did it with a smile on her face. Then dad came back. He helped me keep the roller straight while I painted. When I painted too high, he didn’t say anything either. At the end of the day the blue paint was higher than the white all around the room. Mom and Dad said it wasn’t a big deal because the border would cover all my mistakes. I may not have painted the walls as well as I could have, but I was little. What did you expect? To this day I still remember the looks on my parent’s faces. They were so caring and happy and so was I. now I think back to that day, when it was all so simple. When my biggest mistake was a wrong movement of a paint roller on the wall not a wrong movement of a blade on my skin. I hadn’t stopped smiling once that day and that felt good. it was fun. Do you know how many times vie wished I could back to when I was that age? I’d be so much happier. Maybe I would have changed my attitude. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so shy. Maybe I would have been more athletic. But no, I can’t change the past. Maybe the future, but not the past. It’s not possible to change the past no matter how much you wish you could. Every mistake you made, every word you said, every small thing you did…it’s there forever. Its stuck in the part of your brain that remembers every little detail about your life and it sucks. If I could go back in time and change myself, I don’t think I would. I don’t think it help anything. I honestly believe id end up exactly like I am now. Scared, alone, broken. Nothing would change and its dumb to believe otherwise.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Your love for me was the one thing that kept me going. Even when I fucked up big time and thought you hated me, your love was always there keeping me going. There are no words to explain what that means to me and I don’t think there ever will be. I hope to never relapse into a habit like this, but if I do, I know I have you to come to. I know I’m not alone.
1 note #all time low
I welcomed you to my life,
Figuring you’d stay.
How ignorant was that?
You came and you walked away,
Leaving me to accommodate myself to life without you.
The fabrication of your words,
Was almost convincing.
You thought I couldn’t see through you.
I could.
You left me with an inexplicable valor attitude.
You left me isolated,
To fend for myself,
To fluctuate my lifestyle.
You didn’t care about me.
You just up and left.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
You might as well just stay gone.
No one wants you back.
I don’t even miss you,
Yet, I find myself still caring.
But this time,
When you leave,
Just stay gone.
Save me the pain.
I’ve changed…I get that. In fact, I’m well aware of it. I didn’t plan it. I don’t like it. but I’ve changed and I’m staying this way. I know now what’s important to me. I know what I’m capable of. I know how much I can handle. I know what it’s like to be the person I tried not to be. And you know what, it sucks. It sucks knowing you’ve changed and people don’t accept it. It sucks to know what your “alter-ego” is. But if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change anything. In the words of Tallulah Bankhead “If I could live my life over again, I’d make the same mistakes again only sooner” and I agree. I’m human and I make mistakes, but I don’t truly regret any of them. According to the world my biggest mistake was changing. I didn’t do it for you, or for me for that matter. I grew up. I stopped being a kid and started being a teenager. I grew into myself. Get over it.
