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this is really depressing

ENJOY

My name is John Laurens.

I'm 17 years old, and I live in the state of South Carolina.

And my life is pathetic.

I know what you're thinking, I'm being melodramatic. But I'm not.

I get so sad during the day, for no reason at all, and then I cry in the shower, because no one can hear or see me cry.

I then realise I'm crying in the shower, so I stop.

I have no friends. None at all. Not even one. Everyone avoids me in fact.

I sit alone, at an empty table at the edge of the cafeteria eating my lunch, alone, until I feel sick, and no matter how hungry I am I cant eat, and I throw my lunch away as spend the rest of lunch time sitting in the corner of the library, hiding behind a book and pretending I'm not crying.

I'm sad, I know that. I'm mentally screwed. I've never been to therapy, but whenever films talk about therapy, or books, they always recommend keeping a diary. So I tried that.

I sat, instead of at the library, somewhere on the school grounds in a field, smiling politely as people walked past with their friends, drawing away in my sketch book.

Or that's what it looked like to them.

I was writing, all my feelings. But the more I wrote, the worst it got. It didn't even get to entries soon. Ripped pages, ink stains, scribbles words, hastily written suicide notes, the words "I hate my life" filling up entire pages, plans of suicide, plans of how I could kill people, and drawings, of all the ways I could off  myself.

And it was fine for a while. I had an outlet for my feelings.

Until they found it.

And copied it. And read it to their friends. And stuck it up everywhere. Ans passed it around. And showed everyone. And that's when I was everyones freak boy. Psycho. Dangerous.  Freak.

I locked myself in a bathroom cubicle. And I cried. I sobbed. Harder than I ever had before. I didn't come out until school was over.

No one talks to me.

My home life is no better.

I don't live in an abusive house. More toxic than anything.

Theres good days. I like the good days. I'll come home and my dad is in a good mood. He'll smile at me and ask me how my day was, we'll laugh, I'll do chores, he'll make dinner, we'll eat together like a happy family. I put my siblings to bed, then sometimes we watch a movie together, and eat candy or peanut butter out of the jar, and laugh, and have a good time, until I go to bed.

But then there's bad days.

I'll come home, and my dad is in a bad mood. He glares at me, and sighs, he snaps at me and sometimes he yells at me. I do my chores, and I make dinner. He takes his and eats it away from me and my siblings, then complains about how late and bad it was. I put my siblings to bed. Then he yells at me. He snaps at me about how ungrateful and selfish I am. About how much he does for this family and I'm just a spoiled selfish teenager. He screams at me. He makes me feel so bad. So I go take a shower.

Then I go to bed.

It's not like he's abusive.

He's not. Because he's nice on some days. So if I told someone, I wouldn't tell them much. It's nothing.

There's nothing to tell, it can just be a bit much sometimes.

I should be grateful. I know I should. I have food, I have water, I have a roof over my head, and education, and clothes that fit, and shoes, and if I ask for something like school supplies I'll get it.

Third word problems.

That's what my dad calls it when I cry and scream and cant breathe about going outside. I don't know why. Sometimes I cant.

And then I get hit, and told to pull myself together, and I do, and I just leave.

It's just my dad. There's no one else. He doesn't like me very much. He likes my siblings more.

My mum walked out on us when I was 7.

That's it, she was gone.

No warning, just a note, and divorce papers.

She wasn't perfect, this isn't a film, she wasn't my saviour, or some golden perfect role model.

I would sit in her closet for ages, in the dark, when I was a kid, after she left. I held her clothes close to me and pretended it was her. It smelled like her.

The one day I got mad.

I couldn't stand it anymore.

I cut up all her clothes, I destroyed them, I threw them out, I got rid of her smell, until she left my life.

I don't miss her.

I'm not mad. I just sometimes wish she took me with her. I think she has a better life now. I want a better life.

And then comes the saddest, most main character thing I do.

After school, I go and I sit in the train station. I don't have a ticket, I'm not going anywhere. I sit on one of the benches on the platforms, and I watch the trains.

I don't like trains very much, I just find it calming.

Sometimes I wonder if I should step forward in front of the next one, but I never do.

I watch all the people. The people who come off the trains, the people who are on the trains, the people who go on the trains. I wonder about their lives.

Who's killed someone, who's grieving, who just got fired, who got a new job, who ran away, who's starting a new life, who has siblings, who's an orphan, who tried to kill themselves, and who is genuinely happy?

And when I came home so late I told the story of friends, my closest friends, and going to town, and eating and joking and laughing and

you should see the proud look on my dads face

when I tell him about my friends.

And I spin massive tales of strict parents, and complicated schedules when he asks to meet them.

If all that isn't pathetic, what is?

It's a cycle.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I got on one of those trains. And I never came back. I just left.

So I did.

On my 18th birthday, I got on a train I did not pay for, with $20 and 73 cents in my pocket, a rubber band, and 3 safety pins, and my phone.

And I didn't look back. I rode it to the end of the line, and then I got another one.

And with every one I took, the more giddy with happiness and pride I felt as I left home.

I had dreams.

Of course I do, I have things I want to do with my life, I suppose that why I haven't killed myself yet, I have big dreams.

And I found myself in New York City. Where exactly I couldn't tell you but I was there. Where I had always planned to be.

I don't know what I expected with $20 and 73 cents in New York City, alone, on my 18th birthday.

In less than a week I was in a homeless shelter.

Before that I stole this notebook. Don't look at me like that. I spent my money on food.

I looked at it, and I saw the pages, the leather bound cream pages, and the smooth cover, and I fell in love. So it went in my jacket. With a few pencils and pens, and a sharpener, and a single eraser. And I walked out of there, pretended to check my phone, and started running.

This is beginning to sound like a confession.

It's not. More like a memoir.

I also draw.

I draw what I see.

Like the old man sitting on the bench alone, then I rub out the other side and add in his wife when she came to join him, feeding the pigeons.

Or the boy on the bike who got hit by a car, and bled out in the road. He died. I waited until I saw the ambulance and I drew the paramedics.  They covered him with a sheet on the stretcher. He didn't live.

Or the couple having a picnic in the park. They looked like they loved each other. I drew them when they kissed.

So turn the pages lightly, there could be a drawing.

I suppose in some ways my life is slightly better.

I have someone that's what I'm trying to say.

His name is Alexander Hamilton, and he's nice. Just nice.

He's not much older than me.

We met when I was crying. I don't have a shower to do that in anymore, so I was trying to be quiet.

But obviously he heard me. He asked me if I was alright. I told him to fuck off. He didn't keep asking. But he tried to calm me down. I struggled, but gave in, and he held me.

It was so weird, he held me.

It wasn't romantic, nor beautiful, we both smelled, we looked gross, we hadn't changed clothes, we were hungry, and tired, and thirsty, and wondering if we would survive the week. But he held me. And that made me cry more.

And I cried so hard in his arms, until I couldn't physically cry anymore.

I like him. I think he likes me.

I showed him my drawings. He says they're beautiful and I'm talented.

I don't know if I believe him. But it was nice.

We talk. We stay up late, and we giggle, and have deep talks, and we both cry sometimes, and we hold each other.

He kissed me once. He thought I was asleep, but I wasn't, and he kissed me on the cheek. I haven't said anything about it. I liked it.

He holds me. We spend a lot of time holding each other, and we tell each other our life stories. He said I sounded depressed. I wasn't sure.

He told me he writes.

I asked him if he has dreams.

He wants to become and author. I hope he does.

This feels more like a diary than a sketchbook now.

So then, my dear diary, I'll finish here with a question.

Do you know what it's like to be held,

when you've never been held before,

or to feel be happy and free,

even though you know you could die at any moment,

or have you ever held a conversation with someone,

when you never have before, and you end up talking about everything and anything you possibly can,

do you know how it feels to be loved,

when you never thought you could?

I do.