Funny I started watching 13 reasons why. I debated if I could emotional deal with it and feared some really bad triggers but so far, nope, none. It is really a well done show and for someone who was the school slut I can see it from a different view than most. The differences in my experience was that I actually did most of the things I was accused of and I never thought of killing myself because I hung out with so many suicidal people. I always looked at them and thought they were weak. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I experienced anything worth the thought of throwing myself in front of a train.
So last nights episode kinda pissed me off. It’s funny because it taught me the way you see things isn’t always the way they are. Sometimes you think one thing happened and when you see it from the outside it was very different.
On to the reason for the title of this blog.
I used to write poetry. All the time. I carried a small book with me to jot things down. By the time I finished my first high school I had filled 20 of those small books and even had three published. My ex is an author, his writing pretty much sucks. Mine was different, it was sad, I mean the type of sad that would have gotten me institutionalized. I was going though shit and I let it all out on those pages.
When I left that school I left poetry. I closed that chapter of my life and started a new one. Now even when I’m reading other people’s blogs, if I see a poem, I will skip it. I can’t even look at them. In that time, it saved me, but it is no longer a means to release my thoughts. The poems and books are all gone, burnt. I think there might be some in a box my mother has of yearbook and such. Funny since she’s never read them.