Status: Pleased to Say that it is going to be published in the Canadian Mental Health Association (Saskatchewan Division) come Spring/Fall of 2013
Girl Behind the Smile
Fake Smile
Writing was never a passion of mine. I was never the young woman who had a pen and paper attached to her hip, ready to write down inspirational words. I was never the person who was gifted in English and Grammar. Words and phrases never popped into my mind like the images that I could create with a pencil in my hand. So when I did start to write, it was a wonder.
I do not know the exact time I first wrote in my little red-and-black book or even where I got it from. But I must have been somewhere around the age of fourteen, because that’s when my childhood came crashing to a halt. That’s when the effects of my brother’s negativity on my family pushed me to my breaking point. My parents and I were frustrated with everything and everyone for trying to intrude in our family. My brother was deeply into drugs and alcohol and the whole town knew about our family’s problems. I had no one to turn to, so I wrote.
At the time, I dismissed my poems as meaningless outcries of a pissed-off adolescent. But reading them now as an adult, I realize they were a child’s cry for help. The things I wrote were dark and full of hurt and anger, all directed at one person: my brother. I poured out all my feelings into rambling, formless poems that were filled with spelling mistakes half obscured by scribbles and stained with tears. My lines were very literal without many metaphors or fancy words. And you didn’t have to search for the meaning behind it all. An example here is the poem I wrote where the Angel is my older sister:
My Angel came
She took me away
She took me back to the swing
The swing I had once gone before
We talked about our broken family
She said that I could talk to her anytime
But how can I?
When I can’t even talk to myself
She said that it’s good for me to talk
But how can I talk to anyone?
They don’t understand
The pain I feel growing inside me everyday
The silent Hell I have to block out of my head when I go to school
I hide behind this smile
A smile that’s mostly fake
Plastered onto my face like a painting
But one day this painting will fade and no one will see it
All my emotions tucked away inside
Away from the world forever
Until I break
My poems were the key to my heart, which I hid from everyone. I was angry with my brother and wished I could say the things I had put down in my notebook, but I didn’t have the strength at the time. My writing got progressively darker and I contemplated killing myself.
He almost did the thing I wished for myself
For the pain and suffering to boil up like a kettle
The self-loathing
The hatred
What’s the point?
I cry to think of what I want
How I could think that way
To see a knife and want to hurt myself
Seeing a tub full of water and think, what would it be like?
Would anyone cry for me like I’ve cried for myself?
Would they come to me like they are to him?
Would anyone care?
The battle going inside me
The good always wins
But maybe it won’t
At a time where I desperately needed help, I wrote out some of my less barren creations and slipped them under my parents’ bedroom door. When my parents read my poems, they began to understand how I was feeling about our family that was falling apart. They tried to help me through the tough times by shielding me from their arguments with my brother. I did not tell my loved ones or anyone else of my depression and self-destructive thoughts until eventually I wrote out all my problems in my book and came out of my depression, when I was a much stronger individual.
To this day, no one except me has read my book in its entirety. I re-read it once in a while and realize that, if I had not had the strength to show it to my parents and if they hadn’t found a way to shelter me, I might not be here today. My writing has been a way for me to heal and climb out of my pit of despair.
Writing is a very personal and emotional escape from the highs and lows of the everyday world for me. I admit that I am not the best writer in the world. I do not know how to classify my poems. And I know that they are not the greatest works of art. But I still cherish them. When I hear people say that they are emotional writers and do not want to show their works, I understand completely. I tell them my story so that they feel more comfortable about sharing, in the secret hope that they’ll let me read their words one day. I try to convince people that I do not intend to judge them and that I will keep their confidence. Anything I hear is sealed unless they want me to talk about it.
As a closet writer myself, I take this theme very seriously, especially when I hear about kids committing suicide because they don’t get the help they need. Words can have so much power and influence over us all; we tend to forget this in everyday life. So if I can help one individual step out of the shadows and show their words to one or a thousand people, I’ve accomplished my goal.
I do not know the exact time I first wrote in my little red-and-black book or even where I got it from. But I must have been somewhere around the age of fourteen, because that’s when my childhood came crashing to a halt. That’s when the effects of my brother’s negativity on my family pushed me to my breaking point. My parents and I were frustrated with everything and everyone for trying to intrude in our family. My brother was deeply into drugs and alcohol and the whole town knew about our family’s problems. I had no one to turn to, so I wrote.
At the time, I dismissed my poems as meaningless outcries of a pissed-off adolescent. But reading them now as an adult, I realize they were a child’s cry for help. The things I wrote were dark and full of hurt and anger, all directed at one person: my brother. I poured out all my feelings into rambling, formless poems that were filled with spelling mistakes half obscured by scribbles and stained with tears. My lines were very literal without many metaphors or fancy words. And you didn’t have to search for the meaning behind it all. An example here is the poem I wrote where the Angel is my older sister:
My Angel came
She took me away
She took me back to the swing
The swing I had once gone before
We talked about our broken family
She said that I could talk to her anytime
But how can I?
When I can’t even talk to myself
She said that it’s good for me to talk
But how can I talk to anyone?
They don’t understand
The pain I feel growing inside me everyday
The silent Hell I have to block out of my head when I go to school
I hide behind this smile
A smile that’s mostly fake
Plastered onto my face like a painting
But one day this painting will fade and no one will see it
All my emotions tucked away inside
Away from the world forever
Until I break
My poems were the key to my heart, which I hid from everyone. I was angry with my brother and wished I could say the things I had put down in my notebook, but I didn’t have the strength at the time. My writing got progressively darker and I contemplated killing myself.
He almost did the thing I wished for myself
For the pain and suffering to boil up like a kettle
The self-loathing
The hatred
What’s the point?
I cry to think of what I want
How I could think that way
To see a knife and want to hurt myself
Seeing a tub full of water and think, what would it be like?
Would anyone cry for me like I’ve cried for myself?
Would they come to me like they are to him?
Would anyone care?
The battle going inside me
The good always wins
But maybe it won’t
At a time where I desperately needed help, I wrote out some of my less barren creations and slipped them under my parents’ bedroom door. When my parents read my poems, they began to understand how I was feeling about our family that was falling apart. They tried to help me through the tough times by shielding me from their arguments with my brother. I did not tell my loved ones or anyone else of my depression and self-destructive thoughts until eventually I wrote out all my problems in my book and came out of my depression, when I was a much stronger individual.
To this day, no one except me has read my book in its entirety. I re-read it once in a while and realize that, if I had not had the strength to show it to my parents and if they hadn’t found a way to shelter me, I might not be here today. My writing has been a way for me to heal and climb out of my pit of despair.
Writing is a very personal and emotional escape from the highs and lows of the everyday world for me. I admit that I am not the best writer in the world. I do not know how to classify my poems. And I know that they are not the greatest works of art. But I still cherish them. When I hear people say that they are emotional writers and do not want to show their works, I understand completely. I tell them my story so that they feel more comfortable about sharing, in the secret hope that they’ll let me read their words one day. I try to convince people that I do not intend to judge them and that I will keep their confidence. Anything I hear is sealed unless they want me to talk about it.
As a closet writer myself, I take this theme very seriously, especially when I hear about kids committing suicide because they don’t get the help they need. Words can have so much power and influence over us all; we tend to forget this in everyday life. So if I can help one individual step out of the shadows and show their words to one or a thousand people, I’ve accomplished my goal.