BPD and Self-Esteem [Rant]

Self-esteem is a strange thing, especially for someone with as many mental disorders as I have. Borderline Personality Disorder causes a particularly large amount of trouble.

See, my BPD makes it so that I’m happy/content/relaxed at 11:24 PM, and suddenly depressed/frustrated/anxious at 11:27 PM. And this goes on repeat. Every five minutes, I suffer a massive shift in emotions and thoughts. I don’t know if you can imagine how much of a torment that is. Here’s a description of what has happened every night, with slight variations, for the last week:

I go to bed at around 7:30 PM and alternate between doing homework and wandering the internet aimlessly until around 2:00 AM because I can’t bring myself to shut the laptop down and face the darkness – both inside of me and outside of me. I can’t bring myself to face the loneliness, because I’m afraid of what I might do.

Because at 7:30 PM, I might be stressed out. But by 8:00 PM, I’m excited about writing, or a film, or whatever else. At 8:05, I’m suddenly depressed for no reason, and that sticks around til about 9:00 PM, when I feel at peace with the world. Then at 9:10 PM, I’m frustrated and wanting to punch a wall. At 9:14 PM, I’m calm again. Then at 9:20, I’m suicidal and want to etch words into my skin with the blade of the knife.

The times fluctuate, but the idea is the same. I swing from emotion to emotion within minute-long spans. Sometimes, there’s no more than two or three minutes between severe changes.

It makes a soul feel a little mad, you see. Like we are multiple people in one body, each vying for control… one character I know from TV prides himself on being emotionless. But sometimes, his human side – he has two sides, a human and an alien side; the human is the emotional, the alien is the emotionless – acts up, and he struggles for control, being yanked back and forth between two sides of himself.

See, that’s just one description of what it’s like. To fight with your own soul in an attempt to gain control over just one emotion. To stop being the object of a vicious tug-of-war game between multiple sides of yourself, refusing to allow you rest or peace – forever trapping you in a neverending cycle of emotion to emotion to emotion.

It’s enough to make a soul go mad…

What does this have to do with self-esteem? Well, not a lot – I did say this was rambling – except the fact that sometimes I’m happy with my appearance, but most of the time I hate it.

I hate my hair, how it’s impossible to maintain, and how it’s just a mess of tangles and frizz and split ends and uneven strands. I hate how I can’t style it very often because it’s such a mess; it’s at just the length where it’s too short to do the styles I’d like to do, and too long to do the other styles I’d like to do. I hate how I look like I just got out of bed all the time, even if I spent half the morning trying to get my hair to behave. I hate the colour sometimes too, ’cause it’s kind of plain. But many of the people I cosplay have similar coloured hair, so that’s one blessing.

I hate my (nonexistent) sense of style and fashion. I can’t for the life of me put together any combination of clothing and accessories beyond a t-shirt and jeans that makes me look half-decent. I end up looking like the Doctor after a regeneration, just throwing random clothes on, or – due to the nonstop state of my hair – a hobo who nicked whatever they could find off clotheslines.

I hate my build. Short and odd-shaped. Not much else more to say on that.

I hate feeling ugly, never being able to compare to other people, never being able to meet everyone’s standards of beauty, never able to hold a candle to most others’ appearances.

I hate my voice because it’s stuck in between deep and high, and constantly cracks, so I sound like a fourteen-year-old boy trying to get used to his newly deepened voice.

I hate that I have to periodically wear long sleeves, because if I don’t, the red marks and the peeling scabs on my arms, on my wrists, show up, and I have no way of explaining them beyond ‘cat fight’ to anyone who notices. I hate that I’m so weak, so pathetic, that I resort to slashing at my own arm with a knife. So ridiculous – dramatic? – that I scratch words like ‘USELESS’ and ‘WHORE’ and ‘WORTHLESS’ on my arm with a blade, because of guilt and whatever other emotions decide to rear their ugly heads.

I hate… I hate everything, really. I hate being myself, and I hate facing the judging stares of everyone who sees me for what I am. Hate, hate, hate, hate.

For someone who gets distraught at all the hatred in the world, I have an irrational problem – this being that I’m constantly in a state of self-hatred… despite my efforts to eliminate hate from the rest of the world.

I did say I was mad, you know. Mad, insane, kooky, barmy. Bloody crazy.

No one could be and feel like me and not be irrevocably messed-up and insane. Thank you, disorders, for making me feel like I belong in a mental institution.

Hell, I probably do.

I’m not dangerous. Usually. I’m just a screwed-up kid trying to find peace, trying to find happiness, and failing. And the more I realise ‘happiness’ and ‘peace’ are not possible for me, the further I fall.

I’m going to reach the bottom eventually. And I’m not sure I’ll have the strength or even the desire to try and climb back out again. I can only fall so many times before my brittle bones break.

Why am I posting this here again? I don’t think it’s even important, and I probably shouldn’t be whinging about my problems all over the bloody interweb.

Then again, this is my personal blog, and the one where I write all the stuff I can’t tell people to their face, or about all the topics other people in my life would think were immoral. So I think I’m entitled to say whatever the heck I want. Sorry, mates. If you don’t want to read it, you probably should go back to the beginning so you can stop…

I’d like to die. It may bring peace.

And now, twenty seconds later, my heart is seizing up because, for God’s sake, I don’t wanna die! I want to live, I just want happiness and peace, and is that too much to ask?

Please. Let me die. Just let me die and give me rest from the pain of the scars on my heart, on my arms.

Please, keep me safe. Don’t kill me. I want to wait; I just want to wait long enough to see the ones I love find happiness. See them get married, have kids, laugh and smile and live and love. I want to see them gain the happiness I didn’t have.

Death. Life. Death.



Damn BPD.


I Am Different – And That’s Okay

Something has always bothered me, for as long as I can remember. I never knew what it was; just that it was a nagging sort of feeling in the back of my heart that reared its head from time to time, especially when I was around other people.

I’ve been thinking about that feeling a lot lately. It has been more intense in the last year or so…

I’ve seen photographs and videos all over Facebook of a bunch of friends, who are all part of the same online forum; seen how happy they look throughout the photos of their bi-annual gatherings, and how sad some look in the rare photographs taken before the goodbyes. I’ve seen close-knit groups  of friends all over the place lately, such as a group on DeviantArt devoted to a YouTube channel where they call themselves the Pudding Street Gang, Skype til crazy hours of the morning, draw art of each other, and sometimes even appear in videos the YouTube channel uploads. I see groups of friends on the forum I’m on who are closer to each other than I feel I could ever hope to be with more than one or two people.

Basically, I see all these cliques and tightly-knit groups of people, and I get that nagging feeling again.

Today, while lying out in the grass, watching the gray stormclouds drift and thinking about the snow that melted days ago, I realised what that feeling is.

It’s the feeling of being different.

Different from everyone else. So different, in fact, that you feel like you don’t belong or fit in anywhere – perhaps not even your own family.

It’s hard. To feel so different in so many ways from nearly everyone you meet – mentally different, emotionally different, physically different… with different beliefs, or different talents (or lack of talents), or different lifestyles.

Sometimes, like me, you don’t even know what it is exactly about you that’s so different. Sure, several things are obvious – my beliefs, my lack of talents, and the way I look physically are all very different. I also have a variety of mental and emotional disorders that make me different. But there’s always that feeling of there being something else, something I can’t name… something that keeps me from ever having the chance of feeling like I belong.

Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. Maybe someday I won’t. But until that day… I have to live with it.

And that’s hard, you know? It always has been.

As a kid, I didn’t have many friends. My friends were the cashiers at the local grocery store, and the librarians at the local library. They were kind to me and didn’t push me away, and so, they were my friends. And books – characters in books were my friends. Books were magic to me. They still are. They took me to wondrous places and introduced me to amazing beings.

I made other friends as time went on, once I started meeting them – first at gym, then at homeschool co-op. I never fit in with the other cliques though; I never found one to fit into. I was just too different. The two girls I met at gym… Sidney and Chloe, I never forgot their names… one was very into girly things and wore a pink leotard when she went to the gym. She wanted to be a gymnast someday. The other was a huge tomboy, always in a sweatshirt and shorts.

Me? I was in between. Sidney wanted to practice her acrobatics, Chloe wanted to mess with the exercise equipment, and I wanted to crawl through the plastic play tunnels (this was a gym for kids, after all) and pretend I was exploring for buried treasure. Either that, or I wanted to pick fights with the bully, a fellow named Gary. Or bounce like a kangaroo across a long trampoline.

It might not sound like much, and it really wasn’t the only difference I had, but it was the most glaring one – so while we were friends, we often separated to do our own things, unless one of us decided to sacrifice our fun to hang out with the others who were doing their own activities.

So while there were always close-knit groups of girls and guys there, I never really had one to join in with – I flitted from boy to girl and talked with whoever would talk with me. My happiest moment there was when a teenager – Hayden – took time out of his day to actually speak with me, a lowly child, and play with me in the foam pit (a giant hole filled with foam bricks, above which rope swings hung).

It didn’t bother me much then; I was more outgoing and just puttered about, taking lessons in various stretching exercises and activities with Dmitri, the man teaching kids, or just goofing off.

Then there was homeschool co-op.

Again, the fact that there were cliques and groups of close friends who laughed and joked exclusively with each other didn’t bother me. At 10 years of age (and for several years after, up til about 14 years of age), I was still oblivious to the fact that I was different and couldn’t keep friends too easily without them running off to a different group after a few minutes of talking to me.

I was also still more outgoing than I am now – so I would just be myself, and play with whoever wanted to play with me. I would instigate lightsaber duels, play “Duck Duck Goose”, and start games of touch tag or hide-and-seek with whoever was willing to give me the time of day. In my first year there, most of the kids in my class – Class A – were all too happy to join in, along with some playful ones from Classes B and C.

In the second year, I was oblivious to the fact that in Class B, not many wanted to play with me as much anymore. They gave halfhearted excuses as to why they couldn’t play tag, or duel me with plastic weaponry. Then they would return to their groups of friends… the cliques that didn’t have names. There weren’t clear-cut ‘geeks’, ‘jocks’, etc. Just groups of people who spent time exclusively with those few friends.

I didn’t let it bother me. I went and played with the younger kids instead, who were all too happy to join in.

In my third year, Class C… I began to realise something was happening. Now no one wanted to play my games. Everyone was growing older and more mature, while I remained behind, somehow.

Again, this was just one difference – I had many others, including my mental and emotional disorders, which were slowly becoming more prominent. But it was the main difference that stood out to me.

Even the younger kids avoided my games. The ones who had loved to play with me in the previous year stuck close to their brothers and other kids in Class A, talking about video games and Nintendo characters. The Class B kids would talk about films and gossip in their groups, and tease the younger kids. And the Class C kids, my classmates, just seemed distant and more mature than I. Talking of plans for the future, of their families, of their schoolwork – all sorts of professional-sounding things that were still new to me.

Of course, I was younger than most of them – I advanced in most classes and skipped a few grades during middle school and high school. So in formal classes at co-op, I was nearly always the youngest. But I still felt as though I didn’t belong, for more reasons than maturity. I just couldn’t place why – and I still can’t.

I stayed at the co-op for a few years, but I didn’t sign up for classes. I stayed on so I could edit essays for the teachers, one of whom was my own mother. During class, I would sit in the hallway and be the monitor for the front door – there had been a few times when a drunk had tried to get into the church (where classes were held), and while they hadn’t been violent, no one wanted to take chances when everything was quiet and unsupervised. So I was the guard.

I was more reserved now as I realised no one wanted to interact with me in the way I needed and craved. So I sat there in the hallway, or on the sidewalk outside, listening to music or writing in my notebook. When class ended, my mom would stay behind to talk to the other parents – so I would sit in corner or lean against walls, generally keeping out of the way of the clusters of teenagers and children that would come hurrying out of class to share stories or watch things on each other’s cell phones.

Part of it was a subconscious test, I think – to see if anyone actually wanted to interact with me. If they did, they would probably come up to me first.

No one did. And I realised at that point that maybe all those years I had been trying to get the attention of other kids to invite them into my games of imagination… they hadn’t really wanted to.

That may or may not be true, but it was what I came to the conclusion of and still sometimes hold to.

As time has worn on, I’m still different. Very much so, especially now that my theological and political beliefs are forming. (They change frequently, but I obviously didn’t have any as a kid, beyond the fact I believed in the Bible, so.)

If I thought school and growing up was hard with cliques surrounding me, now it’s even harder – yes, in Christian circles, there are also ‘clique-like’ groups, same as everywhere else. If you don’t believe exactly the same thing they do, sometimes they’ll shun you. Sometimes you just don’t get along together because of belief differences, but they tolerate you.

And when you’re someone like me, with such different views on the Bible, on love, on politics and the rights of living beings… it is so very hard to find a group you can feel you belong to.

I still haven’t, and now that I’m fully aware of how different I am… it hurts. And it is so much harder to ignore, like when I was a kid. I see photographs and watch videos, and I wonder if I’ll ever have a close group of consistent friends that I can have that sort of camaraderie with – the ‘inside jokes, hysterical laughter, and communication with a single glance’ camaraderie. The ‘we’ll always be together, no matter what’ camaraderie. The ‘we might have our differences, but I love you unconditionally anyway’ camaraderie. The ‘we are kindred spirits, and I will always be here for you’ camaraderie.

Sure, I have been blessed by a few friends like that – my soulmates, I call them. And it means so, so much to me. The difference is, we aren’t a group. It’s just one-on-one love and interaction, which is amazing, don’t get me wrong. It’s just not the same as the fellowship of a close-knit group you can feel you belong to, ya know?

I don’t feel like I even totally belong in my own family, for a variety of reasons – so the odds of me finding a group of friends I can connect to and feel like I’m truly a part of a unit larger than myself and one other person… are bad. My chances of that are slim.

But you know what?

That’s okay.

If we were all the same, imagine how boring that would be! It’s beautiful to be different.

Is it hard? Of course. Is it painful? Heck, yes. Is it lonely? Sometimes, yes, it is very lonely. Sometimes it isn’t. You win some, you lose some. That’s life.

But being unique – being the bright smile in a sea of dour, no-nonsense faces, or the quirky individual in a room full of cookie-cutter people – is so worth it. I know it may not feel like it a lot of the time. But it is.

Because different is amazing. And you know something else?

No two snowflakes are alike, and I’d be willing to wager that no two stars are alike either. In other words… some of the most beautiful things in the natural world are unique from all of the others.

You’re unique.

And that makes you beautiful. Don’t forget that.


With love and blessings,
Serenity Deigryn

Someone Special – Chapter One

Dane O’Roan stood at his window, gazing through the rain-streaked pane and down at the street four stories below. Night had fallen several hours ago, but the city of Kiflym was alive with lights and sounds. Sleek vehicles sped past, colourful lights flashing and motors humming; characters of all sorts roamed the streets below, many of them drunk and rowdy.

Turning away from the window, Dane glanced at the silver band wrapped around his forearm. The inscription 10:48 PM glowed iridescent blue on one of the three screens embedded in the band. “Time to fly,” Dane murmured. He walked across the room and leaned against his apartment’s door, his ear pressed against the old-fashioned wood surface. No footsteps or voices could be heard in the halls outside.

Satisfied, Dane opened his closet and dragged his hoverboard out, placing it on the floor next to the window. Long and wide enough to hold two people if they stood very close, it shimmered with a coppery-golden shine. Dane threw open the window, and a curtain of raindrops was whipped into his face by the wind.

He stepped onto the hoverboard, activating it. It gave a low humming sound, and slowly rose into the air. He kept it stationary for several minutes, letting it warm up, before slowly easing his way out of the open window. Turning around, he shut it carefully before surging forward and darting away from the apartment building.


Aleysha Street was illuminated by five streetlights, and a green neon sign that read WLCOE (the first ‘E’ and the ‘M’ had burned out long ago) bolted outside an old pub. It was, perhaps inconveniently, across the way from what used to be a well-played-at park, though children rarely ventured out into this antiquated neighborhood anymore.

Dane soared over the six-feet-high fence shielding the park from the public – for safety, the government had said – and eased his hoverboard down to the ground on the other side. Opening a compartment in the back of the board, he pressed a button. The hoverboard powered down until it only emitted a low purr, and remained stationary.

A glance at his armband told Dane that it was now 11:07 PM. He crept alongside the fence, keeping to the shadows.

Someone sat on one of the long-abandoned swings, slowly rocking back and forth. He could hear the person, a young man from the sounds of it, singing under his breath.

A grin played across Dane’s lips and he made his way across the grounds with a silent tread. He stopped a few feet behind the figure, glancing once again at the blue numbers on his armband.

11:11 PM. Make a wish, it’s 11:11…

He reached out and grasped the chains, causing the swing to twist in all sorts of directions… and the boy on it to let out a yelp and launch himself forward, crashing to the bark-covered ground.

Dane ran around the swing set and fell to his knees on the ground to tickle the figure, laughing uproariously. “Oh, Marcus, ya fraidy-cat!”

The young man – Marcus – giggled, breathless from both the scare and the tickling. Light brown hair flopped into his eyes, and his glasses fell askew. “St-stop, stop it, Dane, stop!”

Dane tickled him mercilessly for a few moments longer before leaning back on his heels, smirking. Marcus scrabbled to his feet and glared at Marcus. “I hate you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Dane gave Marcus his best innocent-puppy-dog look. Marcus maintained the scowl and glare for only a few seconds longer before the corner of his lips twitched in a suppressed smile.

“You don’t hate me, you loooove me,” Dane said triumphantly, crossing his arms with another grin.

“You are the most impossible–” Marcus started, in the adorable tone he used when lecturing Dane.

Dane, still on his knees, scooted quickly over to Marcus and threw his arms around the younger man. Before Marcus could continue his lecture, Dane had kissed him full on the lips. Marcus attempted to get away, his protests – Dane could tell that they were something like ‘stop acting like you’re five years old’ – muffled by Dane, who refused to let go.

Finally Marcus gave up and melted into Dane’s arms, kissing him back. The kiss ended a few moments later, and Marcus snuggled as close as he could to Dane, who kept his arms wrapped around him in a gentle embrace.

“I love you.”

“Told you you didn’t hate me.” Dane tousled Marcus’s hair. “I knew you’d admit it.”

Marcus groaned, a sound of defeat, and Dane gave him an affectionate kiss on the top of the head. The two fell into a companionable silence for several minutes before Marcus spoke again, his voice thoughtful.

“Dane… I wish we could see each other more often. Sneaking out like this, whenever we get the rare opportunity to… it’s just…” His words trailed off.

Dane made a ‘mmm’ sound in the back of his throat, half-growl and half-sigh. “I know. But my landlord would find out, and he’d kick me out. My boss might end up firing me if he found out… and what of your parents?”

“I’m 18! I should be able to do as I please.” Marcus sighed. “Of course, until I manage to move into a place of my own, I obviously can’t.” He leaned into Dane’s shoulder, his tone wistful. “I wish we could run away together, away from all the controlling jerks in this town. I wish we could buy a ship, big enough for both of us to live on, and fly away to explore the stars.”

Dane felt his heart flutter, realising that he shared that wish. “One day, Marc. One day, we will. I promise.” He held his boyfriend tighter, pressing another long kiss to Marcus’s temple.


Two hours later, Dane cruised up to the window of his apartment, realising that now that it was autumn, it would be raining more often. Which meant when he shut his window to keep the rain out, he was also keeping himself out.

After several minutes of brainstorming, rejected ideas, and cursing, Dane reluctantly descended and landed on the pavement outside the building. He powered down his hoverboard and, breathing slowly in and out, walked over to the doors.

The doorman let him in without asking any questions. Dane even managed to get to the elevator and up to his floor without anyone stopping him. But then he collided with the landlord.

“O’Roan. Where were you at such late hours? You do realise it’s nearly 2am.” The man’s eyes squinted at him.

“Yes, Mr. Rallin, I do,” Dane responded curtly, shifting his hoverboard to his other arm. “Which is why I would like to go to my apartment and get some rest.” He tried to step past the shorter man.

Mr. Rallin stopped him. “Where were you, O’Roan?”

Dane said not a word, fixing his eyes on the landlord and hoping that his gaze would convey what he so very much wanted to say aloud: Where I go and what I do is none of your business, you close-minded and sneaky son of a deltarus.

Even if his exact words did not show in his eyes, his frustration and anger did. Mr. Rallin backed off. But he spoke again before letting Dane pass.

“I know your type. The quiet ones who run around after dark and refuse to say where they were, the ones who never bring any girls home every other night for some fun – like other healthy young men do. You’re sneaking out and seeing someone, O’Roan. And I’m willing to bet that that someone is a male, and that you two think you have romantic feelings for each other. I don’t have proof right now, but when I do… well. Perhaps you’d best stop whatever contact you’re making with whoever it is. If you know what’s best for you. I don’t tolerate unnatural behaviour in my apartment complex.”

Dane shoved past the man, gritting his teeth and staring straight ahead. He kept up a swift pace until he reached his apartment and had slammed the door.

He managed to control his emotions long enough to put his hoverboard back in the closet and take off his rain-soaked clothing before he threw himself onto the bed and punched his pillow several times with all the fury and strength he could muster.

Something needs to change… He clenched his jaw, tears of frustration and desperation stinging his eyes. Something will change… someday… I’ll make it change. All it takes is courage, intelligence, and more than a bit of luck.

I will change my life – and Marc’s – for the better. I’ll keep trying to my very last breath. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.

Someone Special – A Few Notes

A few notes before we begin. This is a story I’ve come up with that may or may not go anywhere. The title Someone Special is a stand-in title until I come up with something better. I do not know how often I’ll be able to put up chapters, but I’ll try my best to do it often.

Now for the story premise:

Dane O’Roan is in love. The problem? He is in love with Marcus Seiler, and same-gender couples are highly frowned upon on the small out-of-the-way planet Kasineb. The two of them have, for the last few years, wanted to find a way to get off the planet and travel the stars together. Just the two of them. Because they don’t belong anywhere, or deserve to be a part of society – that’s what others tell them, after all. They are entitled no acceptance or understanding.

Except there are two who do understand, to some extent. Bjorn Sorensen and Rhododendron O’Keeffe are two people who have loved each other for nearly a decade, though not always romantically. Their problem? She is 19, and he is 30. An age gap this large is considered inappropriate and immoral. As a result, they are shunned and condemned.

These four people find each other by chance, and together, they try to find a way to live their lives in peace – together, they strive to achieve their happy ending.

It’s not very good, but it’s all I have right now. If it sounds like something you’ll hate instantly, perhaps you should avoid reading it anymore. However, if you’re curious, please do keep reading. i hope it will teach lessons of love, hope, and courage, if I can write it in the right way.

My writing is a little rusty, so please do bear with me on this new journey!


It’s Okay To Be Scared



Everyone is scared sometimes.

I’m scared a lot of the time. More often than I admit, and more often than I’d like. I’m scared of the dark, and of supernatural beings. I’m scared of deep water, and of people I love dying or getting hurt. I’m scared of the day when everyone sees me the way I see myself – worthless, broken, useless. I’m scared of things that don’t even have labels; they’re just fears deep down that I can’t place, but are there no matter what.

I can’t sleep without melatonin, valerian, and other vitamins at night, because the fear is so bad, I can’t even shut my eyes. When I can’t take those things to help me sleep, I have to watch videos or write on my laptop until I pass out on top of the keyboard.

I don’t know where those fears came from. But there are some that do have roots.

I found out yesterday that I cannot turn my back to anyone without being terrified. I spent the afternoon and evening with one of my best friends yesterday. I couldn’t sit with my back to the wall in the coffeeshop, which put me on edge. I would undoubtedly have been more afraid if I had been alone.

Later on, we went to eat. I tried to sit in a chair that had its back to the kitchen, where the guys were working. I could not bring myself to and had to switch seats so I could sit with my back to the wall.

On a different day, I went to the post office and actually had to edge alongside the countertop because if I turned my back to the people behind me in line, I started to panic.

All that to say – I do have fears that are rooted in past experiences. In this case, I was stalked by a guy who made death threats when I tried to block him from contacting me. And the last time he came to my house after I explicitly told him not to, he refused to stop trying to get behind me. He would follow me around when I told him to stay, I’d turn around, and he’d be standing right there behind me, too close for comfort. He would try to inch around when we were sitting on the ground so that he was seated behind me. He invaded my personal space.

And now I have to constantly look over my shoulder if I’m not standing or sitting with my back to the wall. If someone else, especially a man that I don’t know, tries to stand behind me, I start to shake.

And all that to say… it’s okay to be scared.

Fear is natural. Everyone gets scared. Sometimes the root of the fear makes it unnatural – trauma, for instance. But it’s still okay to be scared.

It’s not pleasant, and it’s not fun. But it’s okay. You’re not a bad person or a person who is worth any less because you get scared.

I could repeat all the old sayings – ‘Fear makes you feel alive’. ‘Fear is what keeps you safe, because if you were never scared, you’d end up doing something and hurting yourself’. ‘There is nothing to fear but fear itself’.

The thing is, the first two phrases, while holding seeds of truth, are overused. And the last one is mostly untrue.

Fear is normal. And I know how hard it is – I know how it is to wish fear could just be eradicated along with all of the negative emotions.

I understand, I really do. I still often wish there was no such thing as fear.

But there is. And you have to remember that being scared is okay. It doesn’t make you any less of a person or any less deserving of a good life full of love, respect, acceptance, and kindness.

It’s okay to hurt. And it’s okay to be scared. I’m no less a person because of my fear and my pain.

It’s okay; it really is. I promise.


Author’s note: I wrote this in about forty minutes and didn’t edit it. It was something I wanted to say, and I said it exactly as it came to mind. Just to let anybody reading this know.

It’s Time To Stop Making Everyone Hide


The girl who wears long sleeves even in the days of summer to hide the shame etched on her arms.

The man who put on a smile and made others laugh to hide the pain inside, until he finally took his own life.

The woman who hides her feelings because people will consider her inhuman if she is open.

The boy who suffers in silence for fear that if he speaks, they’ll belittle him once again.

These are the people you most likely see each and every day. These are the people who have to hide their hearts, their minds, their emotions, and their very souls behind walls, because so many will belittle them for who they are.

Why must we pretend to be people we aren’t to protect ourselves? Why can we not be accepted for who we are?

I know what it’s like. Many of my closest friends know what it’s like. To have to hide ourselves behind a facade of white and silver when inside our souls there are shards of stained glass. To have to force ourselves to pretend to be what everyone wants us to be until we can fade away into our rooms like breath on a mirror, where it’s safe – where we can be ourselves without fear of being belittled or judged.

Girls have to suffer in the miserably hot days of summer because if they try to dress in a style all their own, they’re told they’re being ‘immodest’, or ‘inappropriate’, or ‘provocative’, or that ‘men will think lustfully about you if you wear that’.

People with depression have to put on a mask with a smile. They must never, ever tell others how they wish they could die. Because if they confess that, they will be put down as ‘selfish’, or told that they will end up in Hell if they commit suicide.

Addicts must keep their addictions in the shadows, because they will be treated with shame.

Boys who love boys, girls who love girls, and people who have the ability to love both are called disgusting, wrong, horrible, sinners, immoral, messed-up, and so many other words. They are portrayed as despicable, perverted creeps. And yet, some of the kindest and most polite people I know are portrayed in this way because of who they are attracted to or love.

Christians who struggle with any sort of thing considered as ‘wrong’ are called ‘bad Christians’, because no Christian could ever struggle with depression, have same-gender attractions, self-harm, dress in anything that doesn’t cover all but your face, be addicted to anything… no, no. Christians must be perfect, and if they’re not, they must not really be Christians.

So many are treated as inhuman for their beliefs, lifestyles, emotions. Even when not treated with outright hostility, they are surrounded on every side with veiled superiority from their peers and condescension. They are kept at arms-length, for fear that their ‘badness’ will rub off on the ‘good people’. They are told to change instead of accepted.

Again, I ask – why must we pretend to be people we aren’t to protect ourselves? Why can we not be accepted for who we are?

We are the same, and yet so different. We all have minds, hearts, emotions, and souls.

But we are all so unique at the same time.

You know what? You are beautiful.

Yeah, you heard me. It doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or a girl. You. are. beautiful.

You are amazing, wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, important, priceless, fantastic, funny, and loved.

Just the way you are.

No one should have to hide themselves behind a facade to please everyone else. It’s heartbreaking that so many have to, in order to avoid being hurt by those who want to stick all the humans of planet earth into a box.

We are the same in that we are humans. But our lives and our feelings are different. You can’t put us all in two boxes labeled ‘bad’ and ‘good’ based solely off another’s perceptions.

It is high time that we stopped making everyone hide in their secret gardens, behind their walls. No one should need a wall to feel safe; they should feel safe and cared for no matter what.

Everyone deserves to be loved, respected, and accepted. Treat others the way you’d want to be treated – if you wouldn’t want someone shunning you or condemning you for how you feel or what you think, then don’t do it to others.



Let’s change this society’s mentality of ‘I’m perfect and no one else is’; the poison of ‘if you aren’t like me, you are unimportant’. Let’s change this world one step at a time by respecting and loving everybody we come across.

We are all humans, and we are beautiful, we are unique, we are deserving of love.

It’s time to stop sticking everyone into your predefined boxes.

It’s time to pull everyone into our lives and hug them, to let them know they are loved and accepted no matter what.

It’s time to start treating the hurting, the struggling, the different as humans. It’s time to make it so that everyone is safe to take off their masks.

It’s time to protect, to accept, to respect.

It’s time to love.

It’s time to stop making everybody hide.