finally.
This entry was written in response to jennasie's post at chemicalromance asking for people’s MCR stories. I think I’ve mentioned my story in bits and pieces for the most part, from reviews, random entries, and in Gerard’s birthday entry.
But here it is in it’s entirety. It’s long, and there’s a lot of rambling because I had to start from the beginning, for you to be able to understand the depth of the impact.
I was able to write my heart out about losing my Dad and because of that, it took me two long nights of attempts to finish this but I’m finally done. I cried a lot and listened to Helena while writing it, and I sincerely hope you guys take the time to read it. :] There’s also a picture of my Daddy and I in the entry as well. I'll also finally talk about going to rehab and all of the stuff that happened to lead to it.
Thanks in advance! And btw, I’ll apologize for grammar mistakes and shit now, because I’m half asleep. :P
I’m an only child, who truly believes a greater part of her childhood was the best part of her life.
My Dad was an essential part of my life, you see. He was much older than my Mom, lol, their age difference is seventeen years. Weird, yes, I know. When my Mom had me she was 32, and my Dad was almost 50. In the beginning, he was working two jobs until he was forced to retire and be a stay at home parent.
My Mom says he felt extremely depressed and useless during this time. Here he was, this incredibly intelligent man who earned degrees and was a teacher in the Philippines, now finding that those were of no use in the States, and that he was being reduced to staying at home. He felt worthless, and not being able to provide for his family extremely wounded his ego.
But I never saw any part of it. I‘d like to believe that he was strong for me. He was the one who would wake me up in the morning and take me to school. He was the one that was there afterwards, ready and waiting for me with my little Beauty and the Beast thermo filled with ice and Pepsi. :] He was the one who came on field trips as one of the parental guides, and the one who wouldn’t let me go out and play with the neighbors until he was ready to go outside and stand guard too. He taught me how to draw, sang me to sleep, and was a great part of the beginning and end of each of my days. He was my everything.
I was devastated when he died. He had flown to the Philippines to visit family even if his Doctor didn’t think it was a good idea. He was probably as stubborn as I am, and refused the idea of getting a pace maker inserted into his heart. [Which we of course, now know, could have probably saved him.]
He was only supposed to be there for a week, and he called every night to talk to my Mom, and help me with homework. Two or three days before he was due to come back, he had a heart attack and passed in his sleep. I know it’s the least painful way to go, and someday I hope to go that way too, but the aftermath is crushing when it’s so sudden, and when you aren’t able to say your goodbyes.
My Aunts and my Grandma had noted that it seemed like he was sleeping in till 2 in the afternoon and that was something he never did. When they finally went into his room, he’d been cold for a while already. I was eight years old.
I found out about the news on complete accident. One of my Aunt’s phoned us really late that evening and so my instincts told me something was wrong. I was a curious little kid who liked listening in on phone calls, and so I picked up the other end and heard the news. My Mom started crying in the kitchen, and I remember feeling very numb. I didn’t understand things completely then, but even through the fog and naïve little mind, I think I knew immediately that I was never going to see my Daddy again.
I had a huge Little Mermaid lunch box that I kept hundreds of crayons in, all of which were art supplies that my Dad spoiled me with. I took a couple of crayons, sat down and drew out a tombstone in a field of grass and wrote my Dad’s information on it. Once I was done, I took it into the kitchen and held it in front of my Mom’s face. She took one glace at the picture I had drawn and pulled me to her immediately, crying harder into my little form.
That year was a rollercoaster for my Mom and I. Later in the year. my Aunt and Grandma passed away too, and so my Mom experienced the loss of her sister, mother, and her husband, all in one year. On top of that, my Dad’s death was so sudden and had happened without a will, or anything left in our name. He had, had so much credit card debt and other bills to pay at the time of his death, and it was all left to us. My Mom was forced to do what she could, and that meant selling our two cars, our house, and filing for bankruptcy.
My Dad’s funeral was in the Philippines, and he was also buried there on a space of his family’s land. Funerals are big events there, the streets are closed off so you can walk with family. There’s a marching band too, and we all walk behind this really beautifully decorated hearse. I mean, it really is like a parade, lol.
I did not cry at the funeral. My biggest memory from that day is my Mom weeping over my Dad’s body while I sat on a couch behind her, watching motionless. I thought she was going crazy, she was in such high hysterics. She was sobbing over my Dad, and banging at his casket in frustration. “Manny,“ she would say. “Manny this wasn’t out plan, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.“ My Dad’s sisters and my Grandmother were all at her side, reaching to hold her hands when her frustration started to get the best of her.
I was surrounded by my cousins, sitting motionless in the middle of the room. [In the Philippines, the body can be kept in the house- mortuary style, in the living room. People can come visit, a make-up artist is brought to work on the body, and a band sits outside and plays music. This happens for a week, until the body is ready to be buried, and is then removed from the house. It weirded me out when I was young too, let me tell you.]
Later, my Mom broke down at the podium of the church when she tried to thank everyone for respecting my Dad and thank them for coming. There are pictures of me standing by her side, trying to avoid looking at her face, and instead, staring at the stained glass windows.
Before his body was put into the ground, the glass of the casket was removed and we all went forward to pay our final respects. My Mom told me to come closer, as she stood stroking his face, and finally kissing him. I only had the courage to kiss my fingers and then press them to his hand. I survived that whole trip without shedding tears, and to be honest, I don’t know how long I went without crying or dealing with things. Later I would find out though, that what I had done was just help to manifest things in the most horrible way.
I was still in elementary school, and I was starting to feel depressed and suicidal. The truth was that I blamed myself. My Dad had asked me to come with him on the trip, and in doing so, I would have probably shared a room with him. I wondered if I could have saved him if I had gone. Could I have noticed what my Aunt and Grandmother hadn’t? Could I have saved him if I had only been there to warn them in time? Maybe then, I thought, they would’ve been able to get him to the hospital sooner, and trying to resuscitate him would’ve had a better result.
These guilty thoughts played on my insecurities, and soon I was hating myself. I started to feel worthless and angry. I started to ask my friends questions like, “What would you do if I died? Would you come to the funeral? Would you cry?” At this point, I was also being teased and bullied by people I had thought were my “friends.“ The others were popular kids who tried to recruit me to join them. I was naïve and wanted to be popular, and a part of the cool crowd. I accepted with welcoming arms, and then it was like they had thrown me face down, into the ground. They had taken my trust and little girl dreams, and smashed them into pieces that were not even recognizable in the end.
They scheduled their days around me, and I knew it. I ate lunch as slowly as I could, until the lunch lady had to kick me out of the cafeteria. They were always there waiting at the fences of the playground, waiting to follow me through another recess period. They spent it walking behind me and cursing, calling me names, and throwing grass in my hair, and spitting at me. It was like they had known my thoughts, and known exactly how to make them even worse.
It was like what had started off as small, and had stemmed from my Dad’s death was now growing into complete madness. I had FRIENDS who hated me, and I had no idea why. These were people who got joy out of seeing me suffer, and who put words into my mouth, and spread lies that hurt as much as their insults. I started have nervous breakdowns, became paranoid, and started to ask to be home schooled. The pain was immense, and felt like it would go on forever. That was the first time that I thought about things, and truly wanted to end it all.
My Mom was oblivious to most of this when it first started happening but it wasn’t like that forever. When I started to ask to be home schooled she of course, wanted to know why. When she found out one of my best friend’s had been responsible for some of the teasing, she contacted her Mother and had us face each other and forced us to reconcile. She simply did not understand how cruel children can be. What she had hoped would help, only made things worse of course. Emmabel told all of the kids what had happened over the weekend, and ‘cry baby,‘ ‘weakling,‘ and ‘tattle tell’ were all added to the insult list.
My Mom was frustrated that I wouldn’t tell her the whole story, and so what was going on at school, and in my own mind, started to taint what I had at home. I started to have nervous breakdowns, that would end with me sobbing on the floor, unable to breathe.
Once I got to middle school, I was still bullied from time to time, but I started to try to separate myself from the people that had always come to hurt me. My depression was starting to make the situation with my Mom, a bit hostile. Our arguments were worse than ever before, and we started to throw words that we would have never even considered in the past. I started to skip school a lot, but pulled things together long enough to [barely] be promoted to high school.
As a result of skipping school, I was told to consult the school psychologist. She immediately advised me to start seeing a psychologist.
My psychologist‘s name was Dr. Patricia Herras. I saw her every two weeks for the next three years. It was good to finally be able to talk to an adult that wasn’t there to judge me. She was an incredible person, and mostly, just became a good friend but I don’t know if any real progress came from those sessions. Mostly, because I was too nervous to work on my problems and I was doing therapy the wrong way.
Towards the end of my sophomore year of high school things got really bad. I started to dig my nails into my arm when I was upset, or punch walls. Both of which led to bruising, and then of course led to cutting. I also fell in love with my best friend’s, a freshman named Jonathan. I was head over heels, and completely crazy about him but it was nothing but unrequited love. He was an amazing guy, and he was incredibly understanding even when it came time for me to admit that I was in love with him. In fact, our friendship was even greater after that confession. It hurt too much though, to be his confidant and nothing more. In some ways, he was just as troubled as I was and I had hoped that helping him, would make me feel better. But it’s true what they say, you can’t love anyone else if you don’t love yourself first. I was in love with him for almost four years.
I became completely destructive. I didn’t do drugs or turn to alcohol because I was never that type of person, but I turned things on myself. I was cutting, and was more suicidal than I had ever been. I wanted out, and immediately. I was sure everyone, including my Mom, would do well without me.
Do you remember that part on Life on the Murder Scene when Gerard mentions using suicide as an escape route? And how when you start looking at suicide like that, that‘s the scariest point of all? It was exactly like that for me. When I was extremely scared or dreading something I would find comfort in saying I would just not be around anymore when it happened.
At the end of 10th grade things got very severe. Looking back on those days now, I hardly recognize myself. I look back at journals that I had from that time [which I have saved, thank God, so as to have physical proof of my progress] and sometimes I can’t believe the feelings I felt, or the things I wrote. I was cutting in the middle of classes and cutting in the bathroom before I left for school, even when my Mom was the one taking me. I zoned out between classes and punched walls between them. I took over the counter medication, not enough to overdose, but enough to feel full. To know something was in my system, filling that fucking void. It was around this time that Dr. Herras forced me to sign a contract saying that I would try to stop injuring myself, and suggested I try anti-depressants.
The first medication I was put on was Celexa, and then later, Prozac and Lithium. In addition to this, I was given sleeping pills.
Around the time that I was still on the first round of anti-depressants, I got into a particularly bad argument with my Mom as she was leaving for a family party. She left and I was left alone in the house. I was terribly afraid to be left alone with my own thoughts. I called each of my friends because I was upset, even the acquaintances and friends that I didn‘t know as well as the others.
No one picked up. I took it as some kind of sign, telling me that I was not needed, that I was just as better off as they would be.
As I was taking out my anti-depressants, one of my friend’s finally called back and advised me to call a suicide prevention line or she would call the police. I kept my meds on the floor next to me and obliged. I was talking to the lady on the phone when there was a knock on the door.
There were two policemen at the door step, asking to be let in because they had received a call. One man was Filipino, the other was white. The white man immediately rushed over to the phone, and hung up on the woman that was trying to help me. The Filipino man was more quiet and tried to be more understanding, although I could seen an underlying sarcastic attitude under everything he said. They asked me where my Mom was and had me call my Aunt’s house and they told her to come home.
While I sat on the couch crying, the white police officer browsed my book shelf. He eyed their titles and stared at me suspiciously and said, “Who reads all of these vampire books?” He looked disgusted and in the corner of my eye, I could see the Filipino man chuckling.
Later, the white officer would also say, “So are you going to kill yourself or not? Y’know the police have better things to do than come to the house of every kid who wants to kill themselves and tell them not to do it.”
My Mom came home and I was too nervous to pay attention to what they were saying. I told them it had been a mistake, and they made me apologize for the inconvenience. I was a greater danger to myself than I had ever been, what could have been more important than that?
Things resumed and were calm for a couple of weeks but I couldn’t just shake off my depression or pretend it wasn’t there. In fact, it was ALWAYS there. I was still suicidal and a month or two later I tried doing the same thing again. This time I had posted a xanga entry about being ready to go, and said my goodbyes. Yet another one of my friend’s called the cops and this time three officers were at my door a few minutes later.
One was particularly nice, and he described how his Mom had been fighting depression and that it ran in his family. When I told him what had happened with the other officer he apologized. As they were about to leave, he asked me if I felt I needed help. For once in my life, I wanted to be honest. I said yes.
We went to a clinic in the middle of the night where my Mom and I had to fill out papers, and he filed a police report for the call. He and the other officers had to leave to finish their shift but he gave me his name and told me to call the station if I ever wanted to talk. That night, the nurse on duty questioned me in front of my Mom because she said we were the only people in her building so it was no use to go into another room. My eyes grew frightened, one of the questions was about scars.
I was forced to admit to cutting in front of my Mom, and show her mine.
My Mom started to cry. She’d had no idea.
Some EMT people came, and I rode an ambulance to the center I was being sent to. I checked in at around two or three in the morning. My Mom and I were both crying as she left and I was prepared to stay. It was one of the only times we’ve ever been separated. The only time before that was in 6th grade, for camp.
The police had me on a 72 hour hold at the facility so I had to stay for three days.
It changed my life.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by people in the same conditions as me, if not, worse. One boy was schizophrenic, another couldn’t even muster the courage to talk. I shared a room for the last two days with a girl with an eating disorder who had only been discharged a week before. In a lot of ways, it was entirely weird to suddenly feel the most sane, in a room full of crazies.
The first room I stayed in had a fence in front of the window through which, I could clearly see a parking lot. I cried myself to sleep and when I woke up I cried even more. I had so much time in my room, too much time to ask myself questions. How had I gotten myself here? I wondered. How had all roads led me to this?
I stayed in my room that entire first day, watching people go to and from their car freely while I sat confined to my room and ate my meals in the hall outside my room, sitting on a little table with my Mom.
That night I went to bed at 7 pm. One of the nurses [think Whoopi in Girl Interrupted] came to my room to talk. That was one of the first things I learned, that everyone wants to know your story when you get there.
She asked me if I wanted to join the group in the TV room and I declined. She the moved to sit on the edge of my bed [in my room with too much air conditioning] and said, “No baby, you can’t do that. You’ve gotta get out there and participate, show the Doctors you’re trying and get yourself out of here.”
It was an easy routine to get caught up in. We attended school there, and had art classes and projects to work on. I painted picture frames and jewelry boxes, when I finally decided to participate. We planted in pots, and watched Tuck Everlasting and Agent Cody Banks. In the afternoon, after dinner, we watched Fresh Prince of Bel Air, something I hadn‘t paid much attention to. We even had P.E. and a small yard outside to play in.
The next night, my Mom visited and brought one of my now, ex-best friends. I sat in the conference room with Angela and cried into her shoulders, whispering, “Get me ooout.” I didn’t know if I was really serious or trying to make a half hearted attempt at joking around.
She shook her head back and fourth, saying the same things the nurse had said the night before.
“I can’t do that, you have to get yourself out.”
I found inspiration in them, and so I did. I faked a recovery. I told the therapist that was available what she wanted to hear and participated.
I started to feel really out of touch with the world. It was hard to believe that I knew people outside of those patterned walls. That I had friends who were wearing normal outfits somewhere, while I was spending my time without shoelaces in my Skecher shoes because they weren’t allowed. Specific toothpaste had to be used and handed back into a closet at the end of the night and morning, because they were afraid you’d try to swallow too much. When we weren’t attempting to poison ourselves, we were eating and that called for proper utensils that we weren’t allowed to have. Yes, imagine eating chicken fried steak with a plastic spoon. When I started to share my room with Shirley, a nurse never left our room. One even had to stand guard as Shirley showered, to make sure she wasn’t making herself throw up and another was there in the morning to watch her eat each of her meals [usually just yogurt and a banana]. Calls were monitored, and there were codes for every door we went through. Luckily, I had visits and people who were willing to answer my calls. The other kids had no such luck.
At the end of three days I was let out. The quickest recovery ever maybe, because all of the teachers and shrinks were surprised. I said goodbye to Nick, the only true friend I had made there, and promised to write him.
As I stepped out into my freedom again, I saw the sign that I hadn’t seen in the dark when I had first made my arrival- a big sign that read, “UCSD Children and Adolescent Rehabilitation Center.”
I was fifteen years old, and I had gone to rehab.
I know this is long as fuck but this is where My Chem came in. After rehab, things actually got worse. I was still suicidal, and the wounds got deeper when I cut. Even though I knew I did not want to ever find my way back there again, I didn’t know what to do. I was lost and could not find anything to bring the same kind of relief that came from slicing my wrist with a sharp object.
Up to this point I had been in many fandom’s. Yes, at one point, Justin Timberlake and *Nsync were the ones I used to cheer me up. [Still sort of do, lol.] Then there was AFI and Nirvana, both of which provided me with music that had helped carry me up to that point.
What I hadn’t found however, was someone or something that was able to encompass both.
One of my best friend’s from elementary school recommended My Chemical Romance the summer after I went to rehab. He played me some songs while we sat in Chemistry together [bahaha, ironic right?] and showed me their Purevolume page.
He ran up to me all excited saying, “Jen, I have JUST the band for you. The lead singer is like your soul mate. He wears tight pants, he’s got long hair and he’s all pale. AND their music is awesome.”
When he wasn’t able to go to Warped Tour that year, he told me to make sure and try to catch their set. It was my second year at Warped Tour but I had no idea that my life was going to change.
You can read about the entire experience here:
http://users.livejournal.com/_greatguitarsex/3648.html
What struck me the most was Gerard’s presence and enthusiasm for embracing individuality. He denounced homophobic people and racism, and I really admired that. Those were things I had been preaching about to friends for a long time, and I had not yet found anyone like that until I saw their set.
Afterwards, I met Gerard at their booth, standing there quietly while only a few people recognized him and stopped to ask for autographs. When I almost bumped into him on my way to grab a flyer from HIS merch table, HE apologized and even in his drunken haze, he was an incredible sweetheart. Later, I met the rest of the band and they were just as warm and welcoming. [Read the review, lol!]
I didn’t know who they were then, had no idea of the kind of impact they would have on my life, but I guess those are the best kind of surprises right?
When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was at a Blockbuster the week after Warped Tour, reading an issue of Blender and they were in it. That same week, they were on MTV’s ‘You Hear It First,’ and I followed my own instinct and recorded the segment [at that time, convincing myself it was solely to show Josh, lol].
Gerard was talking about the album, they told of his being a former art school student, and showed their house with all the Marilyn Monroe and Al Pacino pictures on the walls. It was funny.
But what I related to the most was his talk of loss, and depression. They played a small snippet of "Helena" and "Ghost of You" infamous songs now, but then they were so new to my ears. They stuck out to me sooo much, his words about losing his Grandmother only made me think of my Dad. The words I could make out... "things are better if I stay" and "if I died, we'd be together..." I was once again blown away.
Sure there have been many songs of the past, but in those moments I felt like nothing had expressed my pain so perfectly.
I could relate to them so much, and I knew I had to get the album.
On the weekend, I went hunting for Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge. Best Buy wasn’t carrying it, nor was FYE [still the Wherehouse at that time], and so I finally found a copy at Sam Goody. The cover art was nice, and even better remembering how it had been drawn by Gerard. My Mom was puzzled by the name of the band and the cover, lol, to say the least. And I laughed as I ran over the track names... It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Fucking Death Wish? You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us In Prison? [WTF? lol]
I got the album and was blown away. Everything on it was unlike anything I had ever heard of. The lyrics, the guitar riffs, the beats... It was amazing, it was an orgasm for my ears.
They began to be included on MTV2 specials like Discover & Download, and the old version of "I'm Not Ok" began to be used on the channel. Then around October, Maria told me of a new version of the video, with private school uniforms and sandwiches being thrown at Frank. The video blew me away as well.
And so began my love affair with MCR. The first time I traveled outside of San Diego was to see them in Orange County at the opening of a Best Buy store. It was a free show and they played in the parking lot, on a big stage. They held a signing early in the afternoon, and it was the first time Lynda and I ever bought gifts. We were the first in line and brought them two baskets full of stuff we thought they’d need since they tour so much. One included toothbrushes, toothpaste, underwear, Top Ramen, Twinkies!, condoms, lubricant [LMFAO], poker card games, and Altoids, and much more crap. [I WILL write out THAT review one day, lol. I still have lists of all of the stuff we‘ve ever given them.] They were extremely appreciative of everything, and they all fell into a fit of giggles and applauding when we walked up to the table with the gifts.
Frank held Lynda’s hand between his for what felt like ages, and stared into her eyes just saying, “Thank you…seriously, you didn’t have to do this. Thank you so much.”
Even though there was a line looping for miles, when I went to ask Gerard for a picture he immediately said “Yes, but we have to make this quick, okay sweetie?”
And in many ways, I think I knew I’d love them forever right then and there. :D
Another month later, we saw them on the Nintendo Fusion Tour. After that, it was moooonths before I saw them again on Taste of Chaos in 2005, and suddenly, I was finding myself missing them. I was turning to their music, and to their articles and interviews when I was terrified or crying.
My psychiatrist was a nightmare, and soon my psychologist and I fell out of touch with each other. I was alone, but I found hope in hearing Gerard talk about his battle with sobriety and I thought of him during times when I wanted to hurt myself. I was also tired of feeling like a guinea pig when the meds wouldn’t work, because I think, deep down inside, I always knew that my problems didn’t stem from a chemical imbalance but solely, and simply from the things I had encountered in my life. I decided to stop taking anti-depressants and cutting, and quit cold turkey.
In 2005, after we got to talk to him at Warped Tour, I was astounded by his kindness. Once when he was thanking us for gifts, I replied that it was no problem, that it was the least I could do for all they had done for me, and for saving my life.
He responded with the most amazing smile, and spark in his eyes and said, “Aww, well y’know, that’s what we’re here for.” :D
Then, as he and Worm began to start walking away from Lynda and I, I was suddenly hit by this weird sadness. I stopped, half-paying attention to him walking away, and half-just staring off into space when he turned around, and reached for my wrist. He smiled, patted my arm and said, “Hey…Goodbye, okay?”
Three years later, and I was reminded of that same kind of small reassurance when I walked away from the table at Comic-Con and heard him say, “Yeah, I’ll see you at the show, okay?”
They have never stopped ceasing to amaze me, and if there ever comes a day of which that suddenly DOES stop happening, I can walk away happy. Their impact on my life has been amazing. They have given me things to look forward to, and through them I have made some of my greatest friends. [Ahem, HAII JO.]
Sure, there are days where I still wake up deathly afraid of going out, and I’m still scared about the future but I know now, that whatever happens, I’ll be fine. I will always have their music to turn to, their words to talk me down or to talk me up depending on what card life has dealt me. They have shown me that being afraid is okay, feeling bad or unsure is normal, but simply stopping is ridiculous. That the point of all of this is to keep going on and to never, ever give up.
Behind the drama, behind the fandom, there is THAT. On January 4th, I will have been three years free of cutting and any kind of self-harm. In the beginning, it was hard, and time didn’t seem to pass fast enough but now that I have them, it comes with just a little ease. There’s just a little bit more comfort, because these days I have HOPE.
In 2004, I found My Chemical Romance and my life changed forever. I don’t know what I would have done if I had not found them when I had, or if I would still be here now, with you as friends, and experiencing the things I have. I’m not a completely different person now, but [I’d like to hope] just a little better, and at the end of the day, a little happier, and for that I am truly thankful.
I consider all of the miles I’ve traveled, money I’ve spent, tears I’ve shed, and time I’ve “wasted” in the name of that band to be completely worth it, if not for the sole reason that they were able to save that sad little nine year old girl who lost her Daddy, from ending her life as that sad little girl who lost her Daddy.
I could go on and on for hours trying to explain how you’ve helped me, how many times you’ve pulled me back safely from the edge when I dangled too close. It is with your help that I was able to stop hurting myself. It is with your help that I continue to try and soldier on. There is no amount of gifts or kind words I can give to thank you for all of that but…
THANK YOU. Truly, thank you.
Haha, I could go on and on for hours trying to explain just how those guys have helped and I’m sure we could all start to trade off stories too! :D
But instead, I hope this will help you guys understand. I’ll leave you with an excerpt from my personal journal, from an entry I wrote in January when I was at a really, really dark crossroads:
I hadn’t thought such thoughts in so long. These were things I thought I’d never think again.
I spent a few hours just crying my heart out. The sobbing and the snot, my goodness! I listened to music that had no hope so I could dig myself further into a hole. I hoped it would help me convince myself to jump in and not look back.
After those few hours I made a list in my head as I laid on the floor in the middle of my room. Finally, I changed the cd…
And as soon as I heard that wonderful voice say “Now I know that I can’t make you stay,” I felt like someone understood. The impact was powerful, crushing. I felt like someone was there, holding my hands and looking into my eyes, saying those words to my face -- asking me to hold on and give life a few more seconds.
I felt like someone understood, like the song was meant for me, and truly, that is something only good music can do.
I am still here and it is because of all of you. Thank you for giving me hope and reason all over again. Thank you for every time. I love you guys and am in debt to you all. <3- An excerpt, from the entry I wrote on Gerard’s 30th birthday.
xoxo.
But here it is in it’s entirety. It’s long, and there’s a lot of rambling because I had to start from the beginning, for you to be able to understand the depth of the impact.
I was able to write my heart out about losing my Dad and because of that, it took me two long nights of attempts to finish this but I’m finally done. I cried a lot and listened to Helena while writing it, and I sincerely hope you guys take the time to read it. :] There’s also a picture of my Daddy and I in the entry as well. I'll also finally talk about going to rehab and all of the stuff that happened to lead to it.
Thanks in advance! And btw, I’ll apologize for grammar mistakes and shit now, because I’m half asleep. :P
I’m an only child, who truly believes a greater part of her childhood was the best part of her life.
My Dad was an essential part of my life, you see. He was much older than my Mom, lol, their age difference is seventeen years. Weird, yes, I know. When my Mom had me she was 32, and my Dad was almost 50. In the beginning, he was working two jobs until he was forced to retire and be a stay at home parent.
My Mom says he felt extremely depressed and useless during this time. Here he was, this incredibly intelligent man who earned degrees and was a teacher in the Philippines, now finding that those were of no use in the States, and that he was being reduced to staying at home. He felt worthless, and not being able to provide for his family extremely wounded his ego.
But I never saw any part of it. I‘d like to believe that he was strong for me. He was the one who would wake me up in the morning and take me to school. He was the one that was there afterwards, ready and waiting for me with my little Beauty and the Beast thermo filled with ice and Pepsi. :] He was the one who came on field trips as one of the parental guides, and the one who wouldn’t let me go out and play with the neighbors until he was ready to go outside and stand guard too. He taught me how to draw, sang me to sleep, and was a great part of the beginning and end of each of my days. He was my everything.
I was devastated when he died. He had flown to the Philippines to visit family even if his Doctor didn’t think it was a good idea. He was probably as stubborn as I am, and refused the idea of getting a pace maker inserted into his heart. [Which we of course, now know, could have probably saved him.]
He was only supposed to be there for a week, and he called every night to talk to my Mom, and help me with homework. Two or three days before he was due to come back, he had a heart attack and passed in his sleep. I know it’s the least painful way to go, and someday I hope to go that way too, but the aftermath is crushing when it’s so sudden, and when you aren’t able to say your goodbyes.
My Aunts and my Grandma had noted that it seemed like he was sleeping in till 2 in the afternoon and that was something he never did. When they finally went into his room, he’d been cold for a while already. I was eight years old.
I found out about the news on complete accident. One of my Aunt’s phoned us really late that evening and so my instincts told me something was wrong. I was a curious little kid who liked listening in on phone calls, and so I picked up the other end and heard the news. My Mom started crying in the kitchen, and I remember feeling very numb. I didn’t understand things completely then, but even through the fog and naïve little mind, I think I knew immediately that I was never going to see my Daddy again.
I had a huge Little Mermaid lunch box that I kept hundreds of crayons in, all of which were art supplies that my Dad spoiled me with. I took a couple of crayons, sat down and drew out a tombstone in a field of grass and wrote my Dad’s information on it. Once I was done, I took it into the kitchen and held it in front of my Mom’s face. She took one glace at the picture I had drawn and pulled me to her immediately, crying harder into my little form.
That year was a rollercoaster for my Mom and I. Later in the year. my Aunt and Grandma passed away too, and so my Mom experienced the loss of her sister, mother, and her husband, all in one year. On top of that, my Dad’s death was so sudden and had happened without a will, or anything left in our name. He had, had so much credit card debt and other bills to pay at the time of his death, and it was all left to us. My Mom was forced to do what she could, and that meant selling our two cars, our house, and filing for bankruptcy.
My Dad’s funeral was in the Philippines, and he was also buried there on a space of his family’s land. Funerals are big events there, the streets are closed off so you can walk with family. There’s a marching band too, and we all walk behind this really beautifully decorated hearse. I mean, it really is like a parade, lol.
I did not cry at the funeral. My biggest memory from that day is my Mom weeping over my Dad’s body while I sat on a couch behind her, watching motionless. I thought she was going crazy, she was in such high hysterics. She was sobbing over my Dad, and banging at his casket in frustration. “Manny,“ she would say. “Manny this wasn’t out plan, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.“ My Dad’s sisters and my Grandmother were all at her side, reaching to hold her hands when her frustration started to get the best of her.
I was surrounded by my cousins, sitting motionless in the middle of the room. [In the Philippines, the body can be kept in the house- mortuary style, in the living room. People can come visit, a make-up artist is brought to work on the body, and a band sits outside and plays music. This happens for a week, until the body is ready to be buried, and is then removed from the house. It weirded me out when I was young too, let me tell you.]
Later, my Mom broke down at the podium of the church when she tried to thank everyone for respecting my Dad and thank them for coming. There are pictures of me standing by her side, trying to avoid looking at her face, and instead, staring at the stained glass windows.
Before his body was put into the ground, the glass of the casket was removed and we all went forward to pay our final respects. My Mom told me to come closer, as she stood stroking his face, and finally kissing him. I only had the courage to kiss my fingers and then press them to his hand. I survived that whole trip without shedding tears, and to be honest, I don’t know how long I went without crying or dealing with things. Later I would find out though, that what I had done was just help to manifest things in the most horrible way.
I was still in elementary school, and I was starting to feel depressed and suicidal. The truth was that I blamed myself. My Dad had asked me to come with him on the trip, and in doing so, I would have probably shared a room with him. I wondered if I could have saved him if I had gone. Could I have noticed what my Aunt and Grandmother hadn’t? Could I have saved him if I had only been there to warn them in time? Maybe then, I thought, they would’ve been able to get him to the hospital sooner, and trying to resuscitate him would’ve had a better result.
These guilty thoughts played on my insecurities, and soon I was hating myself. I started to feel worthless and angry. I started to ask my friends questions like, “What would you do if I died? Would you come to the funeral? Would you cry?” At this point, I was also being teased and bullied by people I had thought were my “friends.“ The others were popular kids who tried to recruit me to join them. I was naïve and wanted to be popular, and a part of the cool crowd. I accepted with welcoming arms, and then it was like they had thrown me face down, into the ground. They had taken my trust and little girl dreams, and smashed them into pieces that were not even recognizable in the end.
They scheduled their days around me, and I knew it. I ate lunch as slowly as I could, until the lunch lady had to kick me out of the cafeteria. They were always there waiting at the fences of the playground, waiting to follow me through another recess period. They spent it walking behind me and cursing, calling me names, and throwing grass in my hair, and spitting at me. It was like they had known my thoughts, and known exactly how to make them even worse.
It was like what had started off as small, and had stemmed from my Dad’s death was now growing into complete madness. I had FRIENDS who hated me, and I had no idea why. These were people who got joy out of seeing me suffer, and who put words into my mouth, and spread lies that hurt as much as their insults. I started have nervous breakdowns, became paranoid, and started to ask to be home schooled. The pain was immense, and felt like it would go on forever. That was the first time that I thought about things, and truly wanted to end it all.
My Mom was oblivious to most of this when it first started happening but it wasn’t like that forever. When I started to ask to be home schooled she of course, wanted to know why. When she found out one of my best friend’s had been responsible for some of the teasing, she contacted her Mother and had us face each other and forced us to reconcile. She simply did not understand how cruel children can be. What she had hoped would help, only made things worse of course. Emmabel told all of the kids what had happened over the weekend, and ‘cry baby,‘ ‘weakling,‘ and ‘tattle tell’ were all added to the insult list.
My Mom was frustrated that I wouldn’t tell her the whole story, and so what was going on at school, and in my own mind, started to taint what I had at home. I started to have nervous breakdowns, that would end with me sobbing on the floor, unable to breathe.
Once I got to middle school, I was still bullied from time to time, but I started to try to separate myself from the people that had always come to hurt me. My depression was starting to make the situation with my Mom, a bit hostile. Our arguments were worse than ever before, and we started to throw words that we would have never even considered in the past. I started to skip school a lot, but pulled things together long enough to [barely] be promoted to high school.
As a result of skipping school, I was told to consult the school psychologist. She immediately advised me to start seeing a psychologist.
My psychologist‘s name was Dr. Patricia Herras. I saw her every two weeks for the next three years. It was good to finally be able to talk to an adult that wasn’t there to judge me. She was an incredible person, and mostly, just became a good friend but I don’t know if any real progress came from those sessions. Mostly, because I was too nervous to work on my problems and I was doing therapy the wrong way.
Towards the end of my sophomore year of high school things got really bad. I started to dig my nails into my arm when I was upset, or punch walls. Both of which led to bruising, and then of course led to cutting. I also fell in love with my best friend’s, a freshman named Jonathan. I was head over heels, and completely crazy about him but it was nothing but unrequited love. He was an amazing guy, and he was incredibly understanding even when it came time for me to admit that I was in love with him. In fact, our friendship was even greater after that confession. It hurt too much though, to be his confidant and nothing more. In some ways, he was just as troubled as I was and I had hoped that helping him, would make me feel better. But it’s true what they say, you can’t love anyone else if you don’t love yourself first. I was in love with him for almost four years.
I became completely destructive. I didn’t do drugs or turn to alcohol because I was never that type of person, but I turned things on myself. I was cutting, and was more suicidal than I had ever been. I wanted out, and immediately. I was sure everyone, including my Mom, would do well without me.
Do you remember that part on Life on the Murder Scene when Gerard mentions using suicide as an escape route? And how when you start looking at suicide like that, that‘s the scariest point of all? It was exactly like that for me. When I was extremely scared or dreading something I would find comfort in saying I would just not be around anymore when it happened.
At the end of 10th grade things got very severe. Looking back on those days now, I hardly recognize myself. I look back at journals that I had from that time [which I have saved, thank God, so as to have physical proof of my progress] and sometimes I can’t believe the feelings I felt, or the things I wrote. I was cutting in the middle of classes and cutting in the bathroom before I left for school, even when my Mom was the one taking me. I zoned out between classes and punched walls between them. I took over the counter medication, not enough to overdose, but enough to feel full. To know something was in my system, filling that fucking void. It was around this time that Dr. Herras forced me to sign a contract saying that I would try to stop injuring myself, and suggested I try anti-depressants.
The first medication I was put on was Celexa, and then later, Prozac and Lithium. In addition to this, I was given sleeping pills.
Around the time that I was still on the first round of anti-depressants, I got into a particularly bad argument with my Mom as she was leaving for a family party. She left and I was left alone in the house. I was terribly afraid to be left alone with my own thoughts. I called each of my friends because I was upset, even the acquaintances and friends that I didn‘t know as well as the others.
No one picked up. I took it as some kind of sign, telling me that I was not needed, that I was just as better off as they would be.
As I was taking out my anti-depressants, one of my friend’s finally called back and advised me to call a suicide prevention line or she would call the police. I kept my meds on the floor next to me and obliged. I was talking to the lady on the phone when there was a knock on the door.
There were two policemen at the door step, asking to be let in because they had received a call. One man was Filipino, the other was white. The white man immediately rushed over to the phone, and hung up on the woman that was trying to help me. The Filipino man was more quiet and tried to be more understanding, although I could seen an underlying sarcastic attitude under everything he said. They asked me where my Mom was and had me call my Aunt’s house and they told her to come home.
While I sat on the couch crying, the white police officer browsed my book shelf. He eyed their titles and stared at me suspiciously and said, “Who reads all of these vampire books?” He looked disgusted and in the corner of my eye, I could see the Filipino man chuckling.
Later, the white officer would also say, “So are you going to kill yourself or not? Y’know the police have better things to do than come to the house of every kid who wants to kill themselves and tell them not to do it.”
My Mom came home and I was too nervous to pay attention to what they were saying. I told them it had been a mistake, and they made me apologize for the inconvenience. I was a greater danger to myself than I had ever been, what could have been more important than that?
Things resumed and were calm for a couple of weeks but I couldn’t just shake off my depression or pretend it wasn’t there. In fact, it was ALWAYS there. I was still suicidal and a month or two later I tried doing the same thing again. This time I had posted a xanga entry about being ready to go, and said my goodbyes. Yet another one of my friend’s called the cops and this time three officers were at my door a few minutes later.
One was particularly nice, and he described how his Mom had been fighting depression and that it ran in his family. When I told him what had happened with the other officer he apologized. As they were about to leave, he asked me if I felt I needed help. For once in my life, I wanted to be honest. I said yes.
We went to a clinic in the middle of the night where my Mom and I had to fill out papers, and he filed a police report for the call. He and the other officers had to leave to finish their shift but he gave me his name and told me to call the station if I ever wanted to talk. That night, the nurse on duty questioned me in front of my Mom because she said we were the only people in her building so it was no use to go into another room. My eyes grew frightened, one of the questions was about scars.
I was forced to admit to cutting in front of my Mom, and show her mine.
My Mom started to cry. She’d had no idea.
Some EMT people came, and I rode an ambulance to the center I was being sent to. I checked in at around two or three in the morning. My Mom and I were both crying as she left and I was prepared to stay. It was one of the only times we’ve ever been separated. The only time before that was in 6th grade, for camp.
The police had me on a 72 hour hold at the facility so I had to stay for three days.
It changed my life.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by people in the same conditions as me, if not, worse. One boy was schizophrenic, another couldn’t even muster the courage to talk. I shared a room for the last two days with a girl with an eating disorder who had only been discharged a week before. In a lot of ways, it was entirely weird to suddenly feel the most sane, in a room full of crazies.
The first room I stayed in had a fence in front of the window through which, I could clearly see a parking lot. I cried myself to sleep and when I woke up I cried even more. I had so much time in my room, too much time to ask myself questions. How had I gotten myself here? I wondered. How had all roads led me to this?
I stayed in my room that entire first day, watching people go to and from their car freely while I sat confined to my room and ate my meals in the hall outside my room, sitting on a little table with my Mom.
That night I went to bed at 7 pm. One of the nurses [think Whoopi in Girl Interrupted] came to my room to talk. That was one of the first things I learned, that everyone wants to know your story when you get there.
She asked me if I wanted to join the group in the TV room and I declined. She the moved to sit on the edge of my bed [in my room with too much air conditioning] and said, “No baby, you can’t do that. You’ve gotta get out there and participate, show the Doctors you’re trying and get yourself out of here.”
It was an easy routine to get caught up in. We attended school there, and had art classes and projects to work on. I painted picture frames and jewelry boxes, when I finally decided to participate. We planted in pots, and watched Tuck Everlasting and Agent Cody Banks. In the afternoon, after dinner, we watched Fresh Prince of Bel Air, something I hadn‘t paid much attention to. We even had P.E. and a small yard outside to play in.
The next night, my Mom visited and brought one of my now, ex-best friends. I sat in the conference room with Angela and cried into her shoulders, whispering, “Get me ooout.” I didn’t know if I was really serious or trying to make a half hearted attempt at joking around.
She shook her head back and fourth, saying the same things the nurse had said the night before.
“I can’t do that, you have to get yourself out.”
I found inspiration in them, and so I did. I faked a recovery. I told the therapist that was available what she wanted to hear and participated.
I started to feel really out of touch with the world. It was hard to believe that I knew people outside of those patterned walls. That I had friends who were wearing normal outfits somewhere, while I was spending my time without shoelaces in my Skecher shoes because they weren’t allowed. Specific toothpaste had to be used and handed back into a closet at the end of the night and morning, because they were afraid you’d try to swallow too much. When we weren’t attempting to poison ourselves, we were eating and that called for proper utensils that we weren’t allowed to have. Yes, imagine eating chicken fried steak with a plastic spoon. When I started to share my room with Shirley, a nurse never left our room. One even had to stand guard as Shirley showered, to make sure she wasn’t making herself throw up and another was there in the morning to watch her eat each of her meals [usually just yogurt and a banana]. Calls were monitored, and there were codes for every door we went through. Luckily, I had visits and people who were willing to answer my calls. The other kids had no such luck.
At the end of three days I was let out. The quickest recovery ever maybe, because all of the teachers and shrinks were surprised. I said goodbye to Nick, the only true friend I had made there, and promised to write him.
As I stepped out into my freedom again, I saw the sign that I hadn’t seen in the dark when I had first made my arrival- a big sign that read, “UCSD Children and Adolescent Rehabilitation Center.”
I was fifteen years old, and I had gone to rehab.
I know this is long as fuck but this is where My Chem came in. After rehab, things actually got worse. I was still suicidal, and the wounds got deeper when I cut. Even though I knew I did not want to ever find my way back there again, I didn’t know what to do. I was lost and could not find anything to bring the same kind of relief that came from slicing my wrist with a sharp object.
Up to this point I had been in many fandom’s. Yes, at one point, Justin Timberlake and *Nsync were the ones I used to cheer me up. [Still sort of do, lol.] Then there was AFI and Nirvana, both of which provided me with music that had helped carry me up to that point.
What I hadn’t found however, was someone or something that was able to encompass both.
One of my best friend’s from elementary school recommended My Chemical Romance the summer after I went to rehab. He played me some songs while we sat in Chemistry together [bahaha, ironic right?] and showed me their Purevolume page.
He ran up to me all excited saying, “Jen, I have JUST the band for you. The lead singer is like your soul mate. He wears tight pants, he’s got long hair and he’s all pale. AND their music is awesome.”
When he wasn’t able to go to Warped Tour that year, he told me to make sure and try to catch their set. It was my second year at Warped Tour but I had no idea that my life was going to change.
You can read about the entire experience here:
http://users.livejournal.com/_greatguitarsex/3648.html
What struck me the most was Gerard’s presence and enthusiasm for embracing individuality. He denounced homophobic people and racism, and I really admired that. Those were things I had been preaching about to friends for a long time, and I had not yet found anyone like that until I saw their set.
Afterwards, I met Gerard at their booth, standing there quietly while only a few people recognized him and stopped to ask for autographs. When I almost bumped into him on my way to grab a flyer from HIS merch table, HE apologized and even in his drunken haze, he was an incredible sweetheart. Later, I met the rest of the band and they were just as warm and welcoming. [Read the review, lol!]
I didn’t know who they were then, had no idea of the kind of impact they would have on my life, but I guess those are the best kind of surprises right?
When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was at a Blockbuster the week after Warped Tour, reading an issue of Blender and they were in it. That same week, they were on MTV’s ‘You Hear It First,’ and I followed my own instinct and recorded the segment [at that time, convincing myself it was solely to show Josh, lol].
Gerard was talking about the album, they told of his being a former art school student, and showed their house with all the Marilyn Monroe and Al Pacino pictures on the walls. It was funny.
But what I related to the most was his talk of loss, and depression. They played a small snippet of "Helena" and "Ghost of You" infamous songs now, but then they were so new to my ears. They stuck out to me sooo much, his words about losing his Grandmother only made me think of my Dad. The words I could make out... "things are better if I stay" and "if I died, we'd be together..." I was once again blown away.
Sure there have been many songs of the past, but in those moments I felt like nothing had expressed my pain so perfectly.
I could relate to them so much, and I knew I had to get the album.
On the weekend, I went hunting for Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge. Best Buy wasn’t carrying it, nor was FYE [still the Wherehouse at that time], and so I finally found a copy at Sam Goody. The cover art was nice, and even better remembering how it had been drawn by Gerard. My Mom was puzzled by the name of the band and the cover, lol, to say the least. And I laughed as I ran over the track names... It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Fucking Death Wish? You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us In Prison? [WTF? lol]
I got the album and was blown away. Everything on it was unlike anything I had ever heard of. The lyrics, the guitar riffs, the beats... It was amazing, it was an orgasm for my ears.
They began to be included on MTV2 specials like Discover & Download, and the old version of "I'm Not Ok" began to be used on the channel. Then around October, Maria told me of a new version of the video, with private school uniforms and sandwiches being thrown at Frank. The video blew me away as well.
And so began my love affair with MCR. The first time I traveled outside of San Diego was to see them in Orange County at the opening of a Best Buy store. It was a free show and they played in the parking lot, on a big stage. They held a signing early in the afternoon, and it was the first time Lynda and I ever bought gifts. We were the first in line and brought them two baskets full of stuff we thought they’d need since they tour so much. One included toothbrushes, toothpaste, underwear, Top Ramen, Twinkies!, condoms, lubricant [LMFAO], poker card games, and Altoids, and much more crap. [I WILL write out THAT review one day, lol. I still have lists of all of the stuff we‘ve ever given them.] They were extremely appreciative of everything, and they all fell into a fit of giggles and applauding when we walked up to the table with the gifts.
Frank held Lynda’s hand between his for what felt like ages, and stared into her eyes just saying, “Thank you…seriously, you didn’t have to do this. Thank you so much.”
Even though there was a line looping for miles, when I went to ask Gerard for a picture he immediately said “Yes, but we have to make this quick, okay sweetie?”
And in many ways, I think I knew I’d love them forever right then and there. :D
Another month later, we saw them on the Nintendo Fusion Tour. After that, it was moooonths before I saw them again on Taste of Chaos in 2005, and suddenly, I was finding myself missing them. I was turning to their music, and to their articles and interviews when I was terrified or crying.
My psychiatrist was a nightmare, and soon my psychologist and I fell out of touch with each other. I was alone, but I found hope in hearing Gerard talk about his battle with sobriety and I thought of him during times when I wanted to hurt myself. I was also tired of feeling like a guinea pig when the meds wouldn’t work, because I think, deep down inside, I always knew that my problems didn’t stem from a chemical imbalance but solely, and simply from the things I had encountered in my life. I decided to stop taking anti-depressants and cutting, and quit cold turkey.
In 2005, after we got to talk to him at Warped Tour, I was astounded by his kindness. Once when he was thanking us for gifts, I replied that it was no problem, that it was the least I could do for all they had done for me, and for saving my life.
He responded with the most amazing smile, and spark in his eyes and said, “Aww, well y’know, that’s what we’re here for.” :D
Then, as he and Worm began to start walking away from Lynda and I, I was suddenly hit by this weird sadness. I stopped, half-paying attention to him walking away, and half-just staring off into space when he turned around, and reached for my wrist. He smiled, patted my arm and said, “Hey…Goodbye, okay?”
Three years later, and I was reminded of that same kind of small reassurance when I walked away from the table at Comic-Con and heard him say, “Yeah, I’ll see you at the show, okay?”
They have never stopped ceasing to amaze me, and if there ever comes a day of which that suddenly DOES stop happening, I can walk away happy. Their impact on my life has been amazing. They have given me things to look forward to, and through them I have made some of my greatest friends. [Ahem, HAII JO.]
Sure, there are days where I still wake up deathly afraid of going out, and I’m still scared about the future but I know now, that whatever happens, I’ll be fine. I will always have their music to turn to, their words to talk me down or to talk me up depending on what card life has dealt me. They have shown me that being afraid is okay, feeling bad or unsure is normal, but simply stopping is ridiculous. That the point of all of this is to keep going on and to never, ever give up.
Behind the drama, behind the fandom, there is THAT. On January 4th, I will have been three years free of cutting and any kind of self-harm. In the beginning, it was hard, and time didn’t seem to pass fast enough but now that I have them, it comes with just a little ease. There’s just a little bit more comfort, because these days I have HOPE.
In 2004, I found My Chemical Romance and my life changed forever. I don’t know what I would have done if I had not found them when I had, or if I would still be here now, with you as friends, and experiencing the things I have. I’m not a completely different person now, but [I’d like to hope] just a little better, and at the end of the day, a little happier, and for that I am truly thankful.
I consider all of the miles I’ve traveled, money I’ve spent, tears I’ve shed, and time I’ve “wasted” in the name of that band to be completely worth it, if not for the sole reason that they were able to save that sad little nine year old girl who lost her Daddy, from ending her life as that sad little girl who lost her Daddy.
I could go on and on for hours trying to explain how you’ve helped me, how many times you’ve pulled me back safely from the edge when I dangled too close. It is with your help that I was able to stop hurting myself. It is with your help that I continue to try and soldier on. There is no amount of gifts or kind words I can give to thank you for all of that but…
THANK YOU. Truly, thank you.
Haha, I could go on and on for hours trying to explain just how those guys have helped and I’m sure we could all start to trade off stories too! :D
But instead, I hope this will help you guys understand. I’ll leave you with an excerpt from my personal journal, from an entry I wrote in January when I was at a really, really dark crossroads:
I hadn’t thought such thoughts in so long. These were things I thought I’d never think again.
I spent a few hours just crying my heart out. The sobbing and the snot, my goodness! I listened to music that had no hope so I could dig myself further into a hole. I hoped it would help me convince myself to jump in and not look back.
After those few hours I made a list in my head as I laid on the floor in the middle of my room. Finally, I changed the cd…
And as soon as I heard that wonderful voice say “Now I know that I can’t make you stay,” I felt like someone understood. The impact was powerful, crushing. I felt like someone was there, holding my hands and looking into my eyes, saying those words to my face -- asking me to hold on and give life a few more seconds.
I felt like someone understood, like the song was meant for me, and truly, that is something only good music can do.
I am still here and it is because of all of you. Thank you for giving me hope and reason all over again. Thank you for every time. I love you guys and am in debt to you all. <3- An excerpt, from the entry I wrote on Gerard’s 30th birthday.
xoxo.