Be Insane

     What does it mean to be insane?  Must you talk to yourself, or think differently?  Commit the most forbidden taboos, or exploit yourself among others?  Must you stand up and think for yourself, or speak out against popular "inspirational" figures?  Well, if your like me, then if you do the opposite of these, then your insane...

     At a young age, nine to be exact, my mother was killed in a car crash.  She and my father had recently divorced and when they tried to get back together and end the madness in which our family had already suffered, she drove along the endless road as a drunk driver.  Need less to say, it devestated us all.  However, none, being my father, sister, and I, dealt with the grief the same: my father- he replaced not only his depression with alcohol, he replaced my sixteen year old sister and I with it as well.  My sister- she began to take advantage of my father to free her soul as a party-girl.  I shut down with a not-so-wise tip from my father-- especially to a young girl,"emotions are for only the weak.  Tears are a sign of weakness..."

     I allowed myself to skip from the childish age of nine to the mature age of a lonely thrity.  I then found myself begining to express my anger and hatred through other methods-- well, with my emotions still bottled up.  I cut myself, I wrote stories and poems that made you look at life through a depressing perspective, and I had finally two friends in which to confide my utmost personal thoughts with; my, still good friend, Liz as well as myself.  Liz, too, understood the tramatizing effect of losing a parent, for her dad also had died. This allowed us to connect on a higher level.

     One day the teacher assigned us a simple project, to write a poem.  Well, being only nine to ten years old, and with no experience, most students had trouble and wrote silly poems such as the "Roses are Red" poetry.  Well, I knew exactly what I would write!  You may find this particular peice on my page under "No Longer No More".  Whcich I wrote refering to myself... I had that class first period, but by third period, I was called to the office.  Now the counselor was there and when she saw my work she called home, strike one.  After that a teacher caught me crying and sent me back to her-- Liz taught me to show emotions again, strike two.  Finally, I told who I thought I could trust about how I've cut myself before, and she told the counselor once more, strike three.  Now three strikes in baseball meant that you're out, but in school, it meant for CYS, or Child and Youth Services, to come for a visit.  Once that my dad found out about their plans for a visit, he knew that his reputation was at stake, so as usual, when it was time for guests, he plastered on a fake smile and whipped up a Betty Crocker meal, making our family look fake, yet defined by the sane "perfect."

   That wasn't CYS's last visit. One year later, they dropped in due to another school complant.  And most recently, because they heard a rumor, which is no rumor, that my dad hit me... Again, the Betty Crocker fakeness became our lifestyle for a day. Now, truthfully, I wished that they would have taken me away...  

     Now, five years since her death, my sister left to live with my grandmother.  My dad still drinks, however, is learning and still is a work in progress.  I cope with my depression through writing, having poetry published as well as books.  I am unable to go into some detail, for "you may fancy me mad," as were those the famous quotes of Edgar Poe.  Well, this is proof that it is no fun to be sane...