Who we choose to have as friends is a good representation of an idealized version of ourselves.
Endings. My favorite part about writing, endings shape the story you are telling. They define the mood of your readers and write up a list of thoughts to get stuck in their head. Our lives are personal stories that we each write. We get to be anyone we want, we can break hearts or scare those around us or love endlessly or many other combinations. We change our hair, our clothes, even our faces to match the person we have chosen to be. Personally, I strive to make my story worth hearing. But what is a good story without a good ending? A string of words, a sentence with no punctuation. Consequently, I have spent a fair amount of time considering what A fitting end to my story would look like.
Suicide wouldn’t be right, it’s too easy. Like quitting, and who want’s to watch someone quit? But old age is too picturesque, too sweet and tear-inducing. I seemed to receive the answer in the form of several hospital visits.
Number of IV’s: 7
Number of hospital wrist bands : 4
Number of medications tried: 6
Number of nights spent crying alone: 24
Glasses of water needed a day: 8
Glasses of water actually drank: 6
Number of tests done: 18
Number of credits lost: 16
Number of times fainted: 106
Number of answers: 0
I dropped out of school, stopped driving, surrendered my independence for the sake of living. Everything clicked when I slipped into the MRI machine. This is it, this is the right way to die. The perfect ending to the perfect story. I could fight and tell the world that this has only made me stronger. I could be the perfect poster child for surviving until I didn’t anymore. It’s just sad enough without being too much.
So I lucked out? That’s what I tell myself. “It’ll be one hell of a story.”
My friend has a different story to share. The story of bruises that look like little galaxies because she adds stars. The story of perfect lipstick and vintage hair to hide the fact that her blood is turning to stone and pulling her down. Her answer is less exciting, less polished.
Color of pills: Baby blue
Number of times ODed: 3
Number of abusive ghosts: 3+
Jobs lost: 1
Things forgotten: too many
Things found: not enough
Fears: 87
Number of medications: 50
Number of years fighting: 21
Laughing and crying and screaming and talking all get a bit mixed up once you’ve hit your head enough times. This person has a story, a long story with turns and twists and lots of chapters. It is my goal to make a chapter heading in her story. This is what humans do, make appearances in other people’s stories. We believe in the books that we write with our actions and we hope to make a library with our loved ones someday. So here’s to endings, and accepting that ending are here for a reasons and aren’t something to be feared.
ThoughtOutlet 