Do you remember me?

On April 21st of two-thousand-and-twelve, I made a post that started with a picture of me from the return of a field trip. I told everything that I could, up until there wasn’t anything left to tell. I’m back. And there’s more.

It doesn’t say so here, but my name is Wyntre. I’m sixteen. I’m in love. I hate school. I don’t like people, and I don’t appreciate the world enough. None of this is new, isn’t it pretty much stereotypical for a teenager?

Lets begin this where I left off.

“I’m falling in love again, with a boy whom I care so much about. We are not together, but that’s okay. We’re just friends. It can stay that way.

But, things do get better. They may look bleak right now, but hold on just a little tighter.

I am Wyntre MacBryghde. I am fifteen years old. I play piano, I go for long walks, I write poetry, and I am alive.”

He was a good person, I’ll say that much. We had our ups, our downs, and maybe we hate each other enough to still be friends, but I don’t love him. Not-not that way, and it’s better off that he never knows that I ever did.
Yeah, things did get better, but there are still downs.
I’m sixteen. I still go for walks, though now I go for the places that a part of me probably hopes I can’t get out of. I do write poetry, and I’ve published three books, going on a fourth. I don’t know if I’m alive. I’m breathing, I have a heart beat, but I don’t think I’m even here at all.

I live in a place where it snows a lot and I could freeze to death, and maybe that’s why I like walking to school so much. Just as much as it gets cold, you could also melt. I’m a sophomore ready to take on junior year, and I’m not quite ready to decide what I want to do for a long, long time. I have writing. I have photography. I’m setting myself up for medical classes, but is it what I really want? I’ll have to find out.

September of last year was rocky- this person, he is so cute, so beautiful, and he makes me laugh and things feel brighter. In October, we kissed and nothing has ever had more fireworks. In December, I wrote him that I love him. He kissed me, hard, and said he loves me too. There are days rather than doing anything else I just want to share a bed with him and let our skin blend (I don’t mean make love, though I won’t say I don’t think about it. I mean sleep.) with either the night or the day washing over our skin. My bed has always been too big for me, but when he’s sharing it with me, things are finally right. I want him to know that I think he’s perfect, and that I love him “to infinity, and beyond!”.  Keep singing, darling, and play like the stars are your audience.

I told him about my father perhaps a month before my birthday. This was when my anxiety kicked in. My birthday was pulling close, when for all of three years I was sure I wouldn’t even make it that close. And here I am. Sixteen. But the depression came in, and I couldn’t feel anything. Some days I was really angry, some days just sad. It wasn’t enough of the good things. I was locking myself in the dark again. After the sting on my arm faded, I tried to pick myself up. I was okay, but not for long enough. I wanted to taste the top of the world, the place I longed to be since I deserved it. I made it this far, and that’s important.

But, then, why do I still feel this ache of pain and numbness? I made it. I proved myself wrong. Now, for all that I want, I want to be okay. I want to be able to look up and smile and say “Fuck yea, I faced this and now I can rock the world.”

Thursday morning, I didn’t want to wake up. Not that that was new, I hadn’t wanted to wake up for weeks. It is cowardly both ways, to go, and to not be able to go.

The thing that made me stay was thinking about all of the people I care about most. How would they feel? How would they react? Enough people would hate me enough, enough of them would never forgive me. It was the people that wouldn’t even be able to move. I didn’t want my mark to be a scar. I wasn’t ready to be a scar. I’ll leave a mark, but it will be the right mark.

And this is where we come to today.

His name resonates in my head day in, day out. His voice rings through my ears like velvet, and his skin leaves the colour red against mine. I sit in a place that is not where he is, aching for his breath with mine.

Things aren’t okay, and things aren’t right. But they will be. Given time and lax, they will be. And I know it’s a cliche, things will get better, but you won’t know unless you try. And honestly, we don’t know if they do get better. But all you need is time. Watch the sunrise. Dance in the rain. Let a small animal sleep on your chest. Sing at the top of your lungs. Take pictures. Let the world be yours for the taking.

I’m ready for whatever happens, whether it hit me like a boulder or rock me like the water. Whatever happens, happens. I may be small, I may not know much, but I’m here. I can see, sing, talk, think. I can write. And most importantly;

I am alive.