I could hear the EMT speak to me in a demanding voice. As if yelling would make me breathe. Or walk. Or live. I was carried first to a chair and then to a stretcher. I saw the light come and go and suddenly my vision was gone. The last thing I saw was the wallpaper of the ambulance ceiling. Clouds. And I remember deciding that it was simultaneously disgusting and hilarious. Time passed and suddenly I was in the hospital being undressed. “What do I do with this?” He must have motioned towards the satanic pendant I wore around my neck. “Take it off,” said the other. “We’re going to get an IV going, ok?” “She won’t care,” someone insisted. “Lauren! Lauren. Hey. Hey, should anyone know that you’re here?” An immediate “no” followed my nonexistent moment of contemplation. I was alone and I was ok with that. I could feel the needle enter my skin as I slipped in and out of consciousness in a seemingly endless loop. I began to shake. Everything became cold. I felt an odd awareness. And wondered how funny it must’ve seemed that the girl with “everything once” tattooed onto her rib cage was unconscious on a table…her pendants and daring aura rendered useless. It wasn’t until that very instant that I realized perhaps no one had ever truly understood me–and that perhaps no one ever would. “How is she?” “She’s erratic,” he replied. In that brief moment I realized that finally someone had seen me for what I was. However temporarily. And it all made sense. I suddenly understood why I could never be known. Why people don’t stay. And why I should let them leave. I don’t blame them for running. I would do the same. I’d run ceaselessly towards anything but my grave. I don’t want to die. Yet the faster I run the closer I inevitably come to my own undoing. And when the heated blanket was passed over me I slipped away–indifferent to the clinging of my breaths to the cold, thin air between the room’s walls. After waking up I remember a brief exchange of words. I didn’t wonder what they’d had to do to keep me alive. Or whether or not I could’ve died. But I did wonder whether the following interaction had ever really happened. “Were those your friends that you showed up with?” “Yeah,” I replied groggily. “They said they didn’t know you.” I didn’t look over. I was conscious but still aloof. I’ll never know if I were talking to myself. Or if there was someone there. And that’s ok, I think. Because even if that happened it would’ve been entirely true. They don’t know me. And I don’t want to know them. So I suppose that won’t ever change. A nurse came in. This I know for sure. She helped me change and asked if I’d gone to pee since my admittance…as well as number of other equally baffling questions. She stopped when she realized my answers were all the same. I didn’t remember. “Hey dad. It’s Lauren. Can you pick me up? I’m at the hospital.” Life continued as if it had never stopped. And perhaps it hadn’t. I don’t intend to know. I’ve yet to tell my best friend about any of this. But he’s not really my best friend, is he? He’s just a character playing a part. And I know all of his lines. I’ve memorized them thoroughly. He sleeps with a girl because she’s predictable. Perhaps he’s my friend because he’s also predictable. I had concluded a long time ago that I’m not depressed. This is simply the world I live in. The world I love. The beautiful, broken lens I stare through is mine to use for as long as I wish. And I’ve found serenity within its cracks–between the distorted images. Everything I’ve ever needed. It’s all there. I’m not depressed. I’m living.
T.L.L. (via thelonelylyricist)