Krista Lester’s Journal
03/20/00 to 05/09/00
03/20/00
Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting in a church during a friend's wedding ceremony. At one point, there was a startling noise that made everyone in the congregation nearly jump out of their seats. When I looked up, I found that the sound had been caused by the hands of Jesus breaking off of the golden crucifix above the altar. The figure of Jesus started falling forward off the cross with his arms outstretched, as though he was reaching out in a desperate attempt to catch someone. Hence, the drawing above.
It struck me as rather strange that after so many years as a self-proclaimed Satanist, I would have such a striking reminder of my Catholic upbringing. I don't understand where these things come from. If I believed in God or Jesus, I might have considered the dream some sort of a sign that I should heed the wishes of a force greater than myself. This sort of dream would have scared me into going back to church when I was younger. It doesn't anymore. Now, I accept it for its simple nothingness, its use of color, and its ability to intrigue me into religious contemplation.
I've done so much religious contemplation. I don't want to do it anymore. Every time I think about religion, I realize that I can't allow myself to consider any single religion wrong. I call myself Satanist because Satanists don't believe in anything but themselves. I have so much trouble understanding myself and the people around me; why should I spend my time trying to understand something that is essentially nonexistent until I die?
03/23/00
I wonder if I would fear for my life if I was confronted with a life-threatening situation? Whenever incidents occur around me on the city streets, I completely ignore them. Forgive me for my blatant disregard for my fellow humans, but how am I to know if someone actually is in danger? You never know if it might be a scam. I know people who have been scammed by trying to help someone. So I'm really wondering what I'd do if I ever encountered serious danger. Would I try to completely ignore it? Would I run? Would I try to be a hero? Would I do something stupid to threaten my life even more? I don't know.
03/27/00
What I'm finding very amusing these days is that people keep telling me I need to become more like them. But the more they try to convince me I'm crazy, the more I realize they're all crazy, too. When you're always being pressured into becoming normal, you become increasingly convinced that normal people are even more fucked up than you. You begin to see personality as the conglomeration of psychological issues that it really is. You begin to see people as a collection of personal scars acquired through significant occurrences during vulnerable points in their lives.
As a psychiatric patient, I think it's fair for me to say I understand certain parts of the brain more fully than do most "normal" people. And, as a patient, I believe it's fair for me to say that everyone has their own psychological problems. I can recognize the effects of certain events in the lives of people I meet by observing their behavior in social situations. It's not because I have psychological schooling; it's because I have psychological problems. Because I exist as an intelligent creature within the environment of a scientific medium, I can learn to understand psychology to a degree which extends beyond the understanding of the average fully certified psychologist or psychiatrist. I understand what happens inside the brain, and I know how it feels.
Another interesting thing about my situation is that I have always been aware of everything that's going on. I was convinced that I couldn't be crazy for a long time since I entirely comprehended the situation I was in. I wonder if it's possible that my personality has almost split into two? I have two drastically contrasting polar opposite sides to my personality. Again, I realize this, but it's only because I detail my entire life in a journal, and then I try to analyze it. I have a perfectly "normal" and sane personality, but it coexists with an abnormal one that's slowly falling apart.
Of course, there's the same sort of innate duality to everything in life. Society has always labeled it as "good and bad," "black and white," "right and wrong." But it's all the same to me since I see them both, and I justify both. They're two sides to the same whole. They're not two completely diffent ideas; they're one idea with two sides, just as I am one person with two personalities. I envision the opposing forces of nature as being physically represented by Earth. Earth has two poles, both of which remain constant. It's the rest of the Earth that spins around in space with millions of people meandering about their daily business. The people move, but they don't move very far. Even if you uproot Santa Clause from the North Pole, he'll always be relating what he sees to the place of his birth--even if he annually travels across the globe. The determining factor becomes whether or not he ends his trip by returning to the North Pole.
So, what about someone like me who, metaphorically speaking, lived at the North Pole for the first part of my life, then moved to the South Pole for the next large portion of my life? I remember a considerable amount of things about the North Pole, but that's not who I am anymore. I've seen both sides of the globe. I had to travel through the middle of the globe to get to where I am now. I've been to both extremes for extended periods of time, and I've seen all the shades of ambiguity along the way. Get it? There are always two sides. Generally, there's a lot more to it than that, too. But there are ALWAYS two sides. Two fucking sides! Is it that hard to understand? It's very frustrating for me to constantly deal with people who only see one side of a situation: theirs.
03/28/00
You know what I learned today? I learned that there are some people in this world who specifically go out of their way to fuck with you even if there's no specific reason. It's not the concept that's the lesson for the day, though, it's the person. It's always the person, and it's always the same story. I put up with their shit for as long as I know them, and then somewhere along the way they start to run away screaming like their head's on fire. Why? I don't know. Maybe if they ever approached me, something would be accomplished in all of this. But they never do. They always just run away, thinking they've accomplished whatever it was they set out to accomplish. But they haven't. This person forgot one important thing about me: I don't give a shit. I have two favorite phrases that I use all the time: "Ah, whatever," and "Well, there are worse things in life." So who's the winner? Apparently, they think it's the one who runs away with their head on fire.
04/02/00
For most of my life, I've considered myself an artist. On the outside, I've always had the quirk that made me unique, the creative style that no one ever questioned, the odd sense of humor that made me more interesting than strange. But on the inside, somehow I knew something was missing. I believe I discovered that something today.
It's the strangest sort of epiphany, really, considering I haven't done much today other than watch TV, but I never question this sort of thing. You know what it is? I've always had trouble letting go. I've been repeatedly throwing myself into artistic mediums, situations where my art would be recognized, and time after discouraging time, I failed. I never quite understood why, either, since I've always been a hard worker. I've struggled with my musical talents, my artistic talents, my poetic talents so much that I knew it wasn't possible that everyone else was doing more to better themselves than I was. And they're not. That's the problem; they weren't trying as hard.
Now that I've had an opportunity to step back and look at my life from the outside, I realize that art isn't something that is necessarily learned. It takes a certain skill, an innate talent, and a practiced mastery--yes--and you can school yourself in it endlessly, but the true artwork lives in the ability of the artist to remove himself or herself from the technicality enough to allow the truth and definition of the human existence to flow from their very soul. The art lies in letting go.
All this time, I've been waiting for someone to tell me to keep going where my instincts lie. All this time, I've been terrified of stepping on people's toes. Well, fuck that. I've known that sometimes it takes stepping on some toes, but I also thought I might be rewarded somewhere down the line for following all the rules, for making myself fit in where I really didn't. By stepping on toes, I don't mean in a vengeful way, but in such a way that it might just disagree with the standard. But I don't want to be standard, and I never did.
4/7/00
Anyone interested in Columbine and any of the thoughts I've shared about the subject should check out the information that has appeared in the Denver Post since the massacre. I've been following up on their coverage, as Littleton is so close to Denver and the Denver Post is likely to contain the most thorough considerations of the subject. I mention this now because I just finished reading an article from today's paper that speaks of a memorial license plate that's currently in the making. The license plate, if approved, will have a picture of a columbine flower in the center, and the words "Respect Life" at the bottom. My reaction to this is simple: what the hell?
An interesting thought appeared at the end of the article. Dale Todd, a parent of one of the injured students and a supporter of this plate, apparently noted that the actions being taken to resolve the Columbine tragedy are not really helping anything. He even goes on to remark that the killers predicted this response to their actions. In the video tapes they made, they projected, "You'll blame what's in our backpacks, not what's in our hearts." And isn't that exactly what's being done?
All of the pain and anguish that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold suffered is being entirely ignored. I can't restrain my reaction of horror at this lack of understanding. I can't say I'm surprised, but I'm still horrified. I guess it's going to be a long time before people understand what's going on. I wish they could take a tour of the inside of my heart. Then, they would be able to see for themselves how society has affected the blackened hearts of America's youth. It's not our fault; it's theirs. I wish they could feel for a single instant one billionth of the pain I feel everyday. I wish they could know without struggling through their wild goose chases and dead-end investigations, but I don't believe it's going to happen anytime soon.
I don't understand what is so difficult about the concept that hatred exists, and it's not something that appears out of nowhere. I don't understand how people can attempt to pass laws and ban guns and improve security measures without having had at least a glimpse into the brain of a killer. Obviously, I'm not a killer, but I'm not alone in knowing that there are people out there who still think about Eric and Dylan as friends and accomplices in the massacre against hypocrisy in life. Why don't the lawmakers come to us with their questions? Why don't the parents of the victims and the killers come to us with their questions? I challenge someone to come to me with a question about hatred that I can't answer. The concept is simple. There are three kinds of hatred. There is a hatred which concerns only outside forces. There is a hatred that concerns only inner sources. And finally, there is the kind of hatred which is becoming more predominant these days and concerns both the outer and the inner forces.
If you think of yourself as living in a bubble, and you're peering out at the rest of the world, all of those people you see become the outside forces that you hate. Why do you hate them? Well, there can be a million different reasons, but the most logical reason to hate comes from the lack of interest taken by those outside forces in trying to understand your bubble. They don't even look at you in your bubble. Their concern is only for themselves. The bubble can get very lonely. Thus, you start to wonder what it is that's wrong with your bubble, and the more you think about it, the more you realize that everything is wrong with your bubble and it's no wonder that no one tries to interact with you. Herein begins the inner hatred. If you have inner hatred, you kill
yourself. If you have outer hatred, you kill other people. When you have both the inner and the outer forces to hate, you become the most despised kind of killer. You become the kind of killer who can't be punished for wrongdoing because you've achieved exactly what you set out to do, and, in killing yourself as well, you've finally claimed your victory.
This third kind of hatred is all-consuming. Once it is conceived, it snowballs until it overwhelms you. It takes control of your mind and body and becomes the motivation for each of your actions. Why not explore the inner hatred instead of the outer hatred? It's the inner hatred that Eric and Dylan couldn't exorcise from their beings. It's the inner hatred that allowed them to kill themselves. It's the inner hatred that made killing others seem like a perfectly reasonable act. That's what they wanted people to understand. At some point in the future, I would expect many of the surviving victims of this "tragedy" to understand my rationale, but they won't understand it for awhile.
This license plate bearing the inscription of "Respect Life" is simply a silly project for those who have lost faith in their ability to destroy the actual problem. Aside from its unfortunate connotation to an anti-abortion stance, the license plate is focusing only on the outside forces. This respect for life is something which only pitifully resembles an attempt to shield the outside world from the bullets of inner hatred. It's like trying to wipe out an entire colony of ants by stomping on the ground around the anthill. Why not strike a direct blow to the hill itself? The license plate is attempting to acknowledge the fact that most people are afraid to die. It's a call to arms for those who are afraid of guns. What this fails to recognize is that the killers are not the ones who are afraid to die. By praising the lives of those who live in fear, this license plate neglects to even mention the root of the problem. To stop killers, you can't just try to shield yourself from harm. You can't glorify what you are most afraid of losing and then expect to keep it. You have to study the habits of your enemy and uncover a means by which to attack the source of your despair.
04/18/00
Can you believe that's the face of a killer? That's Eric Harris, killer extraordinaire. [The aforementioned picture has been removed for legal reasons.] I'm not sure exactly why I have such an odd fascination with the Columbine massacre, but it might have something to do with the fact that I want to tell all the "normal" people in the world that they're not necessarily much different from the killers of the world. The whole traumatic realization following Columbine revolves around the fact that this event happened in such a stable environment. It happened with normal kids in a normal high school. It happened to normal parents within the normal conditions of the world. It's not an abnormal reaction for the human brain to suddenly snap. It's self-defense from the world. It's the body's means of rescuing itself from the horrors of daily life.
Daily life is literally intolerable for a large number of people. It's not something you can just accept, and it might eventually turn you, your children, or your neighbors into killers. I wonder if this misconception is a result of people having difficulty in recognizing their own baseness? Human beings are flawed in their very biological construction. We have bodies which respond poorly to the conditions of our surroundings. We have to react to weather by wearing shorts and T-shirts or winter jackets and boots. We must respond to danger by protecting ourselves. Everything we do is a reaction to something else. Every thought we conceive, every action we begin, every word we utter is a reaction to conditions which exist naturally in our environment. So, why do some people become killers?
There's no single answer. There's no one incident which occurs in the life of every killer that pushes them over the edge. It's the accumulation of millions of daily occurrences that eventually molds a normal human being into a killer. It's like building blocks; every time something negative occurs in someone's life, one block is added. Suppose so many negative things have transpired that a realistic view of the subject is entirely obscured by all of the building blocks. The building blocks have become so numerous that they've completely hidden the normalcy of the human being trapped inside. And it's not like you can just shake off the blocks. That would be like trying to shake off your worst memories. You can't forget until your mind subconsciously decides to allow you to forget.
I still remember the phone numbers of my two best friends from when I was five years old. I assume those memories will never fade. Imagine how vividly some memories could appear when they're what psychologists call "traumatic experiences." The accumulation of memorable events, when combined with biological aspects of a particular person's brain, makes that person into what they eventually become. How can you blame the killer? How can you blame them when they were once a carefree child whose life was scarred with recurring instances of hatred and violence?
Look again at Eric's face. Does he really look like a killer to you? Well, he was a killer. Killing totally sucks for everyone involved: victims, survivors, and killers. You can't change how the world has molded you. Everyone always realizes they could've been a randomly selected victim, but no one realizes they could just as easily have been the killer. Some human emotions and reactions are absolutely involuntary. Some human emotions and reactions are overwhelming to the point where the conscious mind has no control over them, and if you don't believe that, then you musn't have experienced it yet. Some human brains may be more susceptible to this inner defeat than others, but that doesn't change the fact that the circumstance exists as an unstoppable demon, created by the world's imperfections. Not all of the world's problems are caused by humans. In fact, the exact opposite is true: all of the world's problems are caused by nature. What good does it do to blame humans when the problem is much larger?
04/25/00
(The following thoughts are what ran through my mind as I returned from visiting Columbine for the first anniversary of the shooting. I was so impressed with how the town was handling such an atrocity that I was suddenly inspired to write a letter to the school, thanking them for the courage they showed in their response to the deaths of their loved ones. Hopefully, some of that courage has seeped into me through the general air of positive energy that I witnessed on April 20. This is most of what was contained in the letter. The letter in its entirety can be seen here.)
In 1992, I was a sophomore in high school. During that year, I encountered my first experience with the death of a teenager. The death of a teenager is not an easily reconciled matter, especially if it was someone you knew and loved. Many teenagers have yet to learn that success comes only after failure. They have yet to learn that reality comes only after dreams. It’s a terrible crime for this wisdom to be undiscovered, for life’s lessons to be unlearned, for a promising future to be unrealized.
My experience with the death of a teenager was not only a tragedy; it was also a crime. At the time, I had no one to turn to for advice, no one with whom to share my frustrations. I was convinced I was strong enough that I didn’t need help from anyone, if they didn’t care enough to ask me if I was okay. At first, I hated the killer with all of my soul. My friends and family members kept telling me, “It’s okay. Life goes on. Get over it.” But somehow, those practiced lines didn’t do anything to help me. How could moving on be the right thing? How could it be right to continue living life when not everyone can? How could it be good to think only of myself and not of the deceased every second of every day? I didn’t understand it, so I retained all of my anger, frustration, and resentment, along with my fear of death and all of my hatred.
Eventually, my hatred grew from a general longing for revenge into a violent hatred for the entire world. From this, it evolved into a combination of all of these with the added pain of an intense self-hatred. I lived with all this hatred day in and day out until it consumed me entirely. My hatred took over my life and made me into someone I still can’t recognize as myself. The hatred made me intensely self-defeating and self-destructive until my body could no longer handle the stress. I started experiencing episodes where I would completely lose control of my mind and body. I wouldn’t know who I was or where I was, and these episodes (I found out later they were panic attacks) progressively worsened until the tiniest little upset would aggravate me so much that I could barely breathe.
The collapse of my physical being as a result of my hatred proved only to make me hate everything even more. I was so sure I was handling things the best I could, and I was still having problems. After seven years of silent inner torture, I ended up needing immediate hospitalization for my breathing and my doctors started me on intensive therapy and heavy psychiatric medication. Once my pain started being released, I found myself with an unusually large collection of journal entries, in which I felt I could logically explain and possibly even defend the actions of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold on April 20, 1999. In order to gain credibility in my statements about the killers, I began researching everything about the infamous massacre. The more research I did, the more interested I became in Columbine. My interest continued until I had a huge number of journal entries which included all my thoughts about Columbine and my opinions about where the thoughts of killers might originate. I gathered all of these journal entries into a book and began promoting myself as a supporter of these two killers.
As the one year anniversary of the shooting approached, somehow I knew I had to be in attendance for the memorial events. I traveled all the way from Boston, Massachusetts, against the wishes of every single person I know, to attend the ceremony in Clement Park on April 20, 2000. I don’t know what I expected to encounter in Littleton, but it wasn’t what I got. From all the way at the back of the crowd, I listened to every word of every speaker and every song. I sat on the grass with my head in my hands, hiding behind the hair that fell over my face, pondering why I had come. Some of the speakers made inside jokes and talked about students and teachers I didn’t know, and I felt as though I was partly intruding on their personal affairs and partly like I was justified in being there after having lived with so much pain. I have been so unhappy for so long that I knew I could offer an unconditional support and love for the community, even though I had originally praised the killers, the very reason we were all there in the first place. I can’t pretend to comprehend the emotional ordeal of being a student or faculty member at Columbine last April, but I felt proud to be at the anniversary, offering my sincerest condolences and sympathies for all of the surviving victims.
While I sat on the grass beneath the broad, Colorado sky, I let the words of the speakers course through me like the spiritual renewal of faith in the goodness of humanity. The speaker whose words touched me most was Patti Nielson. After apologizing to the crowd for taking everyone back to that horrible day, Patti Nielson shared the thoughts that had run through her head while she hid in a cupboard for hours, convinced she was going to die. She said she thought of her husband and children, her parents and students. The comment she made that really struck me was that she hoped her children could lead happy lives even without her, and she hoped their loss wouldn’t fill them with anger, hatred, and self-pity for the rest of their lives. Essentially, she didn’t want her children to turn into killers, slaves to hatred like Dylan and Eric, although those two names were never mentioned. Her passionate speech made me reconsider my entire outlook on life.
The overall tone of the afternoon was so positive that I could barely believe it. Several months ago, that would’ve made me extremely angry. I don’t like moving on. The idea of moving on has always offended me. To me, “moving on” has always been synonymous with “forgetting,” but these students weren’t forgetting. These students were remembering without being sappy. They took the situation seriously and put their arms around one another while they reminisced about their fallen comrades and laughed at the stupidity of the media. They must’ve had some outstanding counselors to help them. I’m sure there are those students who can’t move on and haven’t let go of their anger, but the majority of the community seemed to be recovering nicely.
I wonder about the minority, though: where they were, who they are. I feel that their community helped me by being supportive and understanding. I am deeply grateful that they didn’t shove me away from their personal ordeal to depart with all my suffering, anger, frustration, and hopelessness still intact. I’m sure there exists an individual or two or more who hates the community now more than ever for trying to accept that their friend or friends are gone forever, and for those few who believe they can handle the pain on their own in their own time, I want to cry. I want to tell them that it’s okay to find help and ask for help, and it really is the asking that’s the hardest part. I want to tell them that the pain won’t just go away by itself. The pain doesn’t ease with time alone. For now, though, I think it’s my time to move on. The ceremony and the strength I witnessed in Clement Park provided for me the time for remorse, the attention to pain and death that I have always needed. The ceremony was the funeral to replace all of the funerals I should’ve attended at several points earlier in my life, but I didn’t know then if I could handle it. This ceremony was my church, my time to pray for hope in the only way I know how: to be silent amidst anguish, to feel as though I can sympathize, and to know I have something to give.
I must admit, one of my objectives in visiting Littleton was to locate the graves of the killers and to pay homage to two souls who actually did what I had only dreamt of
doing for years and years. It was in Littleton Cemetery that I began the search for their graves, when I encountered three teenage girls gathered around the grave of Lauren Townsend. Impressed with my luck in having found at least the grave of a victim, I started walking towards the three girls with my camera. Somewhere in the middle of my journey to the grave, however, I suddenly realized it was horribly disrespectful for me to make a tourist attraction out of a grave site, so my approach slowed. When I finally approached the grave, I knelt on the grass behind the girls, whereupon they very shyly and sincerely turned to smile and say, “Hi.” I know it seems silly, but it’s extremely uncommon to receive such a friendly welcome from a complete stranger in Boston, so I was moved by their kindness and their immediate acceptance of me. I said, “Hi,” and smiled in response, happily acknowledging that not all people should be the objects of my hatred. Then I asked them if they would mind me taking a picture. They all said it was okay and they started to stand up, but I told them they didn’t have to move, and I took the picture with them in it. After snapping the photo, I sat down on the grave site behind the three girls for a few minutes, and wondered again how these high school students got to be so strong. I sat quietly and tried to pay my respects by acknowledging all of the victims this time, not just the injured and killed, not just the families and friends, not just Eric and Dylan, but everyone who has been touched in any way by the suffering wrought on Columbine High. My thoughts shifted to memories of deceased friends of mine, and all I could do was stare at the grass and contemplate all the time I have wasted with hatred.
Now, as I sit in the plane on my way back to Boston, it hits me. The incredible strength I witnessed in Clement Park and Littleton Cemetery was what I have been missing for the last several years of my life. The support between members of the Littleton community has left me with an overwhelming feeling of hope for the future of Columbine, the nation, and myself. It is with a renewed sense of hope and an unshakable feeling of indebted gratitude to the people of Littleton that I return to Boston. I hope to reach the three girls in the enclosed picture [see picture here] and thank them for their strength and their kindness. I’d also like to thank the rest of Columbine High School for making my life a little more bearable. On this trip, I learned several lessons. Most importantly, though, I learned that hope comes only with togetherness and sometimes love comes only after hate.
04/26/00
I've started trying to make a concerted effort to notice the more positive things in life. You would think this might make me a generally happier person, but it doesn't. Yesterday, for instance, I had a wonderful lunch at one of the most expensive restaurants in Boston, and it was all at company expense. It was great. It was a truly wonderful experience. But so what? There's something more that's missing. So I had a nice lunch. Big deal. Is that supposed to make me suddenly realize that life is worth living? Is that supposed to make me realize that there are things in life that are good enough to put up with all the other things? I think the balance is a little off.
I am extremely indifferent these days. Some things happen that are really good and some things happen that are really bad, but it doesn't make much of a difference to me. I just sort of notice and accept it. This is a considerable improvement from noticing and hating it, but I can't say it's all that much better. I've finally determined that nothing can make me happy. I've known this, but I never really admitted it because there were so many things I didn't have. But now I know that even if I did have them, I wouldn't care.
05/02/00
You know what I don't understand? Boredom. I don't understand it at all. I don't understand how people can spend their lives complaining that they're bored. How is that possible? I never get bored. There are so many things to do in life. Of course, I'm not the first one to say there are a lot of great things to do with your time, but Jesus Christ, people, why complain that you're bored?! Do something productive for a change. Start thinking for yourself for a change. Start writing in a journal. Start reading. Start noticing the things around you.
I can stare at a wall for hours and be perfectly content. I notice the color of the wall and the texture of the wall. I notice what the wall means to me and what it's entire purpose in existing is. I notice something different on every single inch of the wall, and then my mind starts to wander to things like my reason for existence and the things that are unique about me. Then I start wondering about everyone I know and where they are and what they're doing. Then I start wondering about the meaning of life and where we all came from and why we're all here. Then I start thinking about God and whether or not He really exists.
How is it that people can be bored?! Do they sit around with absolutely nothing on their minds? Do they have nothing to think about? It's like their brains are just big rocks sitting around uselessly inside their heads. It's like their heads exist merely as the primary showcase for their physical ugliness. I almost feel like I'm the only person around who actually uses thoughts. Perhaps some people have an occasional thought, but rarely do they recognize it enough to actually do something with it. Why is this such a difficult concept? Why don't most people think?
To me, boredom is something that happened on rainy days in my childhood, while I stared out the window wishing I could go outside to play. Then I would complain to my mother about being bored and she would give me chores to do. That wasn't entirely what convinced me never to complain that I'm bored, though. What eventually convinced me was the fact that it was precisely at the time in my life when I thought things couldn't get more boring and redundant that things turned around entirely, and it wasn't for the better. So that's it; if you complain that you're bored, you either end up with chores or somebody dies. That's all there is to it. Don't fucking complain that you're bored. It's a bad idea.
05/09/00
I have spent the last few days looking all over the web for other people with sites which concern mental disorders like bipolar, depression, panic, anxiety, etc. Every time I come across a site that deals with one of these topics, the person says, "I was depressed for a year, and this is how I got over it: [insert corny optimistic phrase here]. Lots of people have depression. It's an illness. It's a disease. This is how to make it go away because I am the authority on the subject and I can help you."
Bullshit.
If you look at statistics, you'll see that they now believe 1 out of every 4 teenagers is depressed, and 1 out of every 5 adults will have experienced depression at some point in their life. First off, that doesn't make any sense because if 1 out of 4 teenagers is depressed, then the number of adults who have been depressed would have to be at least 1 out of 4. Secondly, WHERE ARE THESE PEOPLE?!
I have never encountered someone who was nearly as depressed as myself. I have never encountered someone who has experienced REAL depression, MAJOR depression, and actually recovered from it. I don't know if it's possible or not. I really just don't know. I'm not here to tell people they can recover magically with some good advice. I'm here to be realistic. I'm not one of those idealistic depression wanna-be's who believes that they really understand what's going on in everyone else's head. You can't tell me you understand what's going on in my head unless you can tell me that you've experienced panic attacks so severe that your entire body goes numb, your eyes throb till you can't see, your breathing gets so difficult that you think you're going to choke to death on your own tongue, and you look in the mirror and ask who the hell is looking through it back at you because you DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE! You can't tell me you understand me unless you've taken a serrated knife to your arms and legs and seen the blood dripping onto the floor so fast that you can't wipe it off fast enough to keep up with it. You can't show me the self-inflicted scars that you will have for the rest of your life. You haven't walked down the street with your hands tightened into fists, PRAYING that someone will mug you so you'll finally have a reason to kill them with the knife in your pocket. You haven't lived your life crossing streets without ever looking for cars because you really just don't care if they hit you. You haven't been so affected by depression that you've had to have two people holding you up by the arms while you walk because your lethargic motor skills have gotten to the point where you can't walk by yourself.... I could go on, but I won't.
I know there are people out there who are far more affected by mental illness than I am, but where are they? Why have I never encountered a friend who was depressed? Why have I never encountered someone who has been through even one or two of the issues I've had to deal with daily for years? I just want to be able to find someone who won't look at me like I'm crazy when I say I want to cut myself. I want to find someone who won't look dejected or appalled when they see the scars on my leg.
I have no CLUE what it would be like to think that cutting yourself is strange. I have no idea what it's like to live without depression, anxiety, panic, and mania. I can, however, still function like a normal person in society most of the time. I am receiving treatment, and I am LEARNING TO COPE with a life-long disease. I am not recovering. I can empathize with some mental problems. I do not understand them all, but I can sympathize. Why can't anyone do the same for me? Why is there no one else out there like me or worse than me? I need some indication that at least one other reasonable person on this planet has experienced even part of what I have been through.