From One Outsider To Another

I know you.

I was you, once.

You sit in the back of the class, near the door, in getaway position, even if you sometimes wish people would notice you, because you know, deep down, wishes are never the way they are in your head, and having that wish come true would cause you more harm than good, because life has more monkey’s paws than fairy godmothers.

Sometimes you watch the popular ones, and you wonder what it’s like to be with them, or, maybe, be them.  Your mom, or aunt, or a well-meaning neighbor says you could be, if you’d   only comb your hair or dress better,  or smile more, but you know you won’t because as much as you want to be like them, deep inside, you know you’ll hate it. 

Nobody gets your sense of humor, and they think you’re strange. You have maybe one or two friends, the last remaining people in the world who haven’t let you down, but you still worry that maybe, that’s only because they haven’t had a chance.

Sometimes you wonder if they would still be your friends if you had more choices of people to hang out with; if you weren’t such a geek. a freak,  or a loser.  Other people’s  terms,  not yours. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that way or you’re a goner.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m telling you what I know about you. And here’s what I know:

Sometimes, you feel so alone, you can’t stand it.  And you think it’s your fault, so you hate yourself.  And sometimes, late, late at night, you think:  My life sucks. Anything is better than this.

So you think about guns, and knives and other sharp-bladed objects or explosive devices and how to use them. Maybe on yourself. Maybe on others. Me, my weapon of choice, at seventeen,  was a car, driving 120 mph on steep, winding hillsides. I tried cutting my wrists  earlier with a knife , but I was too stupid to realize I was cutting the wrong way (no, I will not tell you the right way, shut up) and a burglar breaking into our house interrupted. Yes, I’m serious. But that’s another story.

Where was I? Oh yes, the things I want to tell you.

Hold on. It gets better. Life, I mean. 

It’s not like in the movies, it will still suck most days.  But here's the secret: It's a little less sucky because you're there.    (Just a little, teeny itty-bit less, but whaddaheck, every little bit counts.) Yes, I'm talking about you, the idiot in black. The girl in olive drab.  The kid with the guitar. And the one in the food server’s  uniform. And the angsty one in emo glasses smoking behind the canteen, with the iPod in a striped sock, listening to whatever your equivalent of Evanescence and Linkin Park is. (In my day, we had Faith No More, but I’m an old fogey .)

Yes, there are people and places and events that mess you up big time, and cause you to go through periods where you just want to lock yourself in and curl up to sleep away in the dark, for only God knows how long, and you ARE allowed to do that, but you have to come up for air and sunshine sometime. And meet the people like the ones mentioned above. The ones who make life less sucky. People like you.
 
And what you are doing to make life less sucky, it all adds up. You all add up.

You are you.

I wouldn't really want to be you, been there, done that, but. never mind. All of you is not who you are with, or what you have done, or what you do, or what you have or do not have; be it money or a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a job or a disease. You are not your aloneness, or your couplehood, your ability or inability or disability, your sadness or happiness, or your pain or your anger or your sin.

You are not what other people think, or sometimes, even what you believe. You are not even what I believe, though it pains me to say that. You are just you. That is all, and that is enough. If it isn't enough for others, then it doesn't matter. It should be enough for yourself, that is all that counts.

Miracles happen. They find survivors months after the wreckage, and it's only because the survivors held on. Sometimes the miracles aren't the ones you had in mind, but that doesn't make the ones that do happen any less of a miracle.

Believe.

I believe in people falling and getting up again. I believe the lost can be found, and if not found, replaced with something better. I believe in the broken made whole, the asleep waking up, the lame walking, the blind seeing, people getting well, and people loving people, one way or the other. I believe in all of that, in this life or the next, but preferably in this life, unless time runs out.

I have never been much of an optimist: I do not believe much in the innate goodness of people in general, because I have seen too many who are just as ready to kick you when you are down, as help you get up. Yes, they are out there, ready to steal what little you have, and destroy what they cannot steal. But there are others. And I also have to believe that there is hope and something more. I believe in forgiveness and redemption, and the changing of things. Otherwise, we should all just get guns and shoot everyone else.

I have seen some of what I say I believe, and like a little match, all you need is one, and the dark is gone. I believe in doing what you can. And believing in yourself, and in those who need you to believe in them. Sometimes you are wrong, and sometimes you are right, but being wrong sometimes, that does not make you stupid: In fact, it makes you smarter, if not wiser.

So believe. Be strong.  After all, I was like you once.

Which means, God forbid, one day, you could be like me. And  then you’re really going to need all the strength and faith you can build up.