Perfect Imperfection

An autobiography of my spiritual life

My story begins ironically at the end; the sum of all of my accomplishments, the end of all of my relationships, the finale to my life’s symphony.  As the final notes come together, forming the perfect cadence I knew it would, the reader begins my eulogy.  I never imaged that I would be present for the reading of my own eulogy; I never quite expected that the spirit world was closer to ours than I could ever have imagined.  Let me first describe how this spirit world appears to be… at least to me.  From what I understand, I’m free to interact with everything I did in life; I can go anywhere I’d ever been, see anyone I’d ever seen, but nothing else.  My spirit was like a collection of my accomplishments, relationships, travels, sorrows, hardships, miracles, and everything else.  The reader’s voice was steady, but I could sense the loss in their voice.  The room was full of everyone I had ever loved… family, friends, strangers I had met, teachers, students.  What shook me the most was the emotion I was seeing (I don’t know what else to call it… I wasn’t aware if I still had eyes or not).  I never expected that my life, seeming to me to be insignificant, could have affected so many people.  I suppose in that moment, I realized how perfectly imperfect I had been.  Almost anything I had set my mind to in life, I had accomplished.  Yet to me, my life seemed utterly incomplete; my soul felt incomplete.  A sense of inadequacy pervaded my thoughts in life, and it was only in my death that I realized that my imperfections are what made me perfect.  I realized that I truly had nothing missing, I was whole.  Too little too late.

My story begins ironically at the end; the sum of all of my accomplishments, the end of all of my relationships, the finale to my life’s symphony.  As the final notes come together, forming the perfect cadence I knew it would, the reader begins my eulogy.  I never imaged that I would be present for the reading of my own eulogy; I never quite expected that the spirit world was closer to ours than I could ever have imagined.  Let me first describe how this spirit world appears to be… at least to me.  From what I understand, I’m free to interact with everything I did in life; I can go anywhere I’d ever been, see anyone I’d ever seen, but nothing else.  My spirit was like a collection of my accomplishments, relationships, travels, sorrows, hardships, miracles, and everything else.  The reader’s voice was steady, but I could sense the loss in their voice.  The room was full of everyone I had ever loved… family, friends, strangers I had met, teachers, students.  What shook me the most was the emotion I was seeing (I don’t know what else to call it… I wasn’t aware if I still had eyes or not).  I never expected that my life, seeming to me to be insignificant, could have affected so many people.  I suppose in that moment, I realized how perfectly imperfect I had been.  Almost anything I had set my mind to in life, I had accomplished.  Yet to me, my life seemed utterly incomplete; my soul felt incomplete.  A sense of inadequacy pervaded my thoughts in life, and it was only in my death that I realized that my imperfections are what made me perfect.  I realized that I truly had nothing missing, I was whole.  Too little too late.

(via where-the-measures-begin-to-fray)

The significance of someone in your life is directly linked to what they are to you, what they do for you, how they act with you.  Potentially one of the most significant persons in your life is your mother.  My mother, like all mothers, brought me into this world.  Her suffering gave me the kiss of life.  I entered this world on July 22nd, 1994.  Every year hence, she forced me to celebrate my birthday.  Though I considered the celebration of birthdays to be a silly custom in our society (congratulating someone on living another full year doesn’t seem incredibly inspiring to me), I went along with it to please her.  We had always lived modestly, so those birthday parties were nothing special.  In fact, many birthdays were a family affair; a special dinner and maybe a cake.  Clearly, despite everything, my mom wanted me to live the fullest life possible.  In every situation where I was suffering, my mother was always there.  She was a counsel to me, a source of limitless guidance and wisdom, a provider, a teacher.  They say a saint must perform three miracles to be canonized; if that is the case, then my mother deserves the title many times over.                  I was running back to the funeral home and the rain was slowly stopping.  The dark clouds overhead had turned a light grey, and some dark sky was visible between the banks.  I entered the room of my funeral just in time to hear the beginning of the hymns.  I had never wanted hymns at my funeral, but at the request of my mother, everyone sang in the voice of the tone-deaf religious.  Half of the assembled knew the words without their reader books, while the rest was a mix between not singing, barely knowing the tune, and desperately trying to keep up.  It was of course my mother’s favourite hymn, Just a Closer Walk with Thee.  Though we (and by we, I mean my brother and I) were never raised to be religious, religion was always present in our home to some extent.  At family meals we bowed our heads in prayer, my mother could often be found praying at her bedside before turning in for the night, and she often hummed Just a Closer Walk with Thee.  I thought about the many times I had heard this song, but never really understood it.  I scanned the front row, and there she was.  But she wasn’t singing.  It was the first time I had ever seen my mother give up an opportunity to sing, especially this song.  I began thinking of all the times I had turned to my now silent mother for advice, all of the times I had run to her for shelter as a child.                When my father had married my stepmother—who was quite undeserving of the title ‘mother’; there was nothing motherly about her—my mother became my ‘rock’, so to speak.  She protected me from the wickedness of my stepmother, from the tyranny of my father, from the ridicule I faced at school because I was one of few whose parents were separated, and from the misunderstanding of her family and mine.  It was my mom who taught me that it’s quite alright to show emotion; it’s what makes us human.  For too long I was force-fed the notion that as a male, I was not allowed to show any emotion; exuberant happiness or crushing sadness.  The only emotion I was permitted to express was anger; physical anger was a respected male trait.  My mother was never a violent woman, and so she saved me from myself in a way.  If my anger had been allowed to flourish, I can only imagine what sort of person I would be now.  Combine a violent temper with issues of belonging, self-identity, family, and—to be broad—life and you get one disastrous combination.  So as I stood at my own funeral, watching my mother deal with her emotions, not being able to sing a single note, I realized that my mother really was my saint.  She exemplified everything she had every taught me, leading by example and not mandate.  She saved me when I needed saving, guided me when I needed guidance.  And most importantly of all, she taught me the importance of love.

The significance of someone in your life is directly linked to what they are to you, what they do for you, how they act with you.  Potentially one of the most significant persons in your life is your mother.  My mother, like all mothers, brought me into this world.  Her suffering gave me the kiss of life.  I entered this world on July 22nd, 1994.  Every year hence, she forced me to celebrate my birthday.  Though I considered the celebration of birthdays to be a silly custom in our society (congratulating someone on living another full year doesn’t seem incredibly inspiring to me), I went along with it to please her.  We had always lived modestly, so those birthday parties were nothing special.  In fact, many birthdays were a family affair; a special dinner and maybe a cake.  Clearly, despite everything, my mom wanted me to live the fullest life possible.  In every situation where I was suffering, my mother was always there.  She was a counsel to me, a source of limitless guidance and wisdom, a provider, a teacher.  They say a saint must perform three miracles to be canonized; if that is the case, then my mother deserves the title many times over. 
                I was running back to the funeral home and the rain was slowly stopping.  The dark clouds overhead had turned a light grey, and some dark sky was visible between the banks.  I entered the room of my funeral just in time to hear the beginning of the hymns.  I had never wanted hymns at my funeral, but at the request of my mother, everyone sang in the voice of the tone-deaf religious.  Half of the assembled knew the words without their reader books, while the rest was a mix between not singing, barely knowing the tune, and desperately trying to keep up.  It was of course my mother’s favourite hymn, Just a Closer Walk with Thee.  Though we (and by we, I mean my brother and I) were never raised to be religious, religion was always present in our home to some extent.  At family meals we bowed our heads in prayer, my mother could often be found praying at her bedside before turning in for the night, and she often hummed Just a Closer Walk with Thee.  I thought about the many times I had heard this song, but never really understood it.  I scanned the front row, and there she was.  But she wasn’t singing.  It was the first time I had ever seen my mother give up an opportunity to sing, especially this song.  I began thinking of all the times I had turned to my now silent mother for advice, all of the times I had run to her for shelter as a child.
                When my father had married my stepmother—who was quite undeserving of the title ‘mother’; there was nothing motherly about her—my mother became my ‘rock’, so to speak.  She protected me from the wickedness of my stepmother, from the tyranny of my father, from the ridicule I faced at school because I was one of few whose parents were separated, and from the misunderstanding of her family and mine.  It was my mom who taught me that it’s quite alright to show emotion; it’s what makes us human.  For too long I was force-fed the notion that as a male, I was not allowed to show any emotion; exuberant happiness or crushing sadness.  The only emotion I was permitted to express was anger; physical anger was a respected male trait.  My mother was never a violent woman, and so she saved me from myself in a way.  If my anger had been allowed to flourish, I can only imagine what sort of person I would be now.  Combine a violent temper with issues of belonging, self-identity, family, and—to be broad—life and you get one disastrous combination.  So as I stood at my own funeral, watching my mother deal with her emotions, not being able to sing a single note, I realized that my mother really was my saint.  She exemplified everything she had every taught me, leading by example and not mandate.  She saved me when I needed saving, guided me when I needed guidance.  And most importantly of all, she taught me the importance of love.

I tried to take most everything of what my mother taught me and apply it to my everyday life, including blind love for everyone in my life.  “Judge not others, for fear of judgement yourself,” was the mantra by which I tried to live my life.  When my father married my stepmother, my life took a drastic turn.  The hatred I faced, the misunderstanding, the anger… all of it threatened to pollute my mind.  And to some extent it did; I lost sight of what I was, who I was.  You see, I undervalued my stepmother’s lack of maternal qualities; she was—and probably still is—the most unfit woman to mother children I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with.  Even my own loving mother could not stand this woman, to qualify.  After the many years of unexplainable pain, the day came.  The day when my father revealed—with no warning—that he would be divorcing this creature, forever removing her from my life.  To this day I remember that moment as being the happiest of my life.  It was completely unexpected, but I suppose to immense rush of emotion is what allows me to remember each detail acutely.  My father and I were sitting in the van he co-owned with my stepmother, it was cold… very cold.  I remember the distinct scent of bagel sandwich and wine cigars—the scent that normally covered my dad.  I remember walking out into the snow, feeling the crunch underneath my feet, trying to walk normally.  I realized that this decision, while being a source of delight for me, was probably not the exact same for my father (and, before you ask, I never have asked him if it felt same for him).  I walked down the pathway, and broke into the field.  The brilliance of the sun glinting on the snow matched exactly the brightness I felt inside my heart.  As soon as I was out of eyesight (though perhaps not out of earshot) I screamed at the top of my lungs.  I jumped for joy, and I ran into the snow.  My brother, who was playing at the playground with his friends, turned to look at me.  I don’t remember what I said to him then, or what he said in return.                  As it was now, I was curious what that little park now looked like.  Pulling myself away from the funeral, where my violin teacher had just begun playing the sweetest rendition of Amazing Grace I had ever heard, I began running again.  I stopped right where I remember the van being parked.  I looked around, and realized how little I actually remembered of the surroundings.  Everything was blurred and grey, so I realized it wasn’t as sacred as perhaps the music room was.  I walked slowly through the path I had walked many times.  When I reached the opening of the field, suddenly much more came into focus.  I suppose that made sense; it was here that I had allowed myself the celebration, realizing that a miracle had just occurred.  The horrors of living with my stepmother and two awful stepbrothers had finally come to an end.  While I had always tried to apply a blind love to these people, I found it especially hard.  It is very difficult to love someone who doesn’t love you back; in fact, that’s one lesson I have learned in life.                This miracle in my life made me realize something else as well.  It doesn’t matter how much your perceived miracle hurts someone else, to you it will always be that: a miracle.  No matter how the miracle happens, it is still a miracle.  It doesn’t matter when the miracle happens, it doesn’t change that it is a miracle.  So I admit shamelessly that the divorce of my father from my stepmother was a miracle to me, a moment that changed my life for the better; it made me who I am today.

I tried to take most everything of what my mother taught me and apply it to my everyday life, including blind love for everyone in my life.  “Judge not others, for fear of judgement yourself,” was the mantra by which I tried to live my life.  When my father married my stepmother, my life took a drastic turn.  The hatred I faced, the misunderstanding, the anger… all of it threatened to pollute my mind.  And to some extent it did; I lost sight of what I was, who I was.  You see, I undervalued my stepmother’s lack of maternal qualities; she was—and probably still is—the most unfit woman to mother children I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with.  Even my own loving mother could not stand this woman, to qualify.  After the many years of unexplainable pain, the day came.  The day when my father revealed—with no warning—that he would be divorcing this creature, forever removing her from my life.  To this day I remember that moment as being the happiest of my life.  It was completely unexpected, but I suppose to immense rush of emotion is what allows me to remember each detail acutely.  My father and I were sitting in the van he co-owned with my stepmother, it was cold… very cold.  I remember the distinct scent of bagel sandwich and wine cigars—the scent that normally covered my dad.  I remember walking out into the snow, feeling the crunch underneath my feet, trying to walk normally.  I realized that this decision, while being a source of delight for me, was probably not the exact same for my father (and, before you ask, I never have asked him if it felt same for him).  I walked down the pathway, and broke into the field.  The brilliance of the sun glinting on the snow matched exactly the brightness I felt inside my heart.  As soon as I was out of eyesight (though perhaps not out of earshot) I screamed at the top of my lungs.  I jumped for joy, and I ran into the snow.  My brother, who was playing at the playground with his friends, turned to look at me.  I don’t remember what I said to him then, or what he said in return. 
                As it was now, I was curious what that little park now looked like.  Pulling myself away from the funeral, where my violin teacher had just begun playing the sweetest rendition of Amazing Grace I had ever heard, I began running again.  I stopped right where I remember the van being parked.  I looked around, and realized how little I actually remembered of the surroundings.  Everything was blurred and grey, so I realized it wasn’t as sacred as perhaps the music room was.  I walked slowly through the path I had walked many times.  When I reached the opening of the field, suddenly much more came into focus.  I suppose that made sense; it was here that I had allowed myself the celebration, realizing that a miracle had just occurred.  The horrors of living with my stepmother and two awful stepbrothers had finally come to an end.  While I had always tried to apply a blind love to these people, I found it especially hard.  It is very difficult to love someone who doesn’t love you back; in fact, that’s one lesson I have learned in life.
                This miracle in my life made me realize something else as well.  It doesn’t matter how much your perceived miracle hurts someone else, to you it will always be that: a miracle.  No matter how the miracle happens, it is still a miracle.  It doesn’t matter when the miracle happens, it doesn’t change that it is a miracle.  So I admit shamelessly that the divorce of my father from my stepmother was a miracle to me, a moment that changed my life for the better; it made me who I am today.

(via where-the-measures-begin-to-fray)

To live no lives at all… I suppose in death, I truly found life; though not in the ‘going to be someone someday’ sense, or the ‘work towards my next big goal’ sense.  The reader finished my eulogy and an uncomfortable silence filled the room.  It was in that moment I decided to allow myself to escape.  I was watching everyone present deal with my loss in individual ways, and it was too much for me to process.  I quickly ran through the grey streets (the better my memory of a location, the richer my experience with it now… I had never paid much attention to geography) and went to a house I can never forget.  1039 Flintlock Court, the music house.  It was raining outside, but it didn’t matter to me.  I stood in the circle of grass in the middle of the court, and listened as the soft sounds of piano music floated out into the rain.  I went into the house, and looked around.  I remember the joy this place had once brought me, the many happy memories I had here.  It also functioned as an escape for me; it allowed me—even for a little while—to forget the troubles of my life.  I knew that no matter what I did, I would always be welcomed here; I would forever be greeted with a smile.  I looked to see Brenda, the kind wife of my teacher sitting at her piano.  The smile I usually found on her face was all but there; in fact it looked like she had been crying.  It seemed like she had asked my mother for a picture of me, as one was sitting on the electric piano across the room.  I walked up the staircase to the little room that out of all little rooms was the most special to me.  It was in this room, this small square room, that my talent as a musician was fostered.  Under the quick, witty, cheerful eye of my teacher, after thousands of scales, hundreds of studies, sonatas, concertos, danses, and everything else… I became a strong musician.  Every time I picked up my violin, and brought my bow to the strings, I disappeared.  I escaped into a world of emotion, a world where people and thoughts don’t exist.  It was a simple world made up of notes, dynamics, bowings, intervals, sharps, and flats.  It was a place that had rhythm but no time.  Forever was I imperfect in my art, but that was fine by me.  It was the only aspect of my life in which I allowed imperfection; embraced it even.                  I suppose, as I think on it, that this little room with barely enough room for the furniture in it, was a consecrated place to me.  This room was my portal to another world, a world in which I could exist, but not exist.                  I looked around the room, and was astonished at the detail with which I remembered it.  Nearly every detail was clear… only a few spots were a little blurred.  The only place I remembered with this level of clarity was my bedroom; understandable because I spent most of my time there.  But this little room hosted me for 45 minutes once a week for maybe three quarters of the year.  I spent between 5 and 6 hours a day in my bedroom.  Clearly, this room had held a special significance to me; significance I didn’t realize until much too late.  As I drifted back downstairs, the piano music stopped.  I stopped at the foot of the stairs, and was startled when Brenda looked my way.  It seemed for a moment that she was looking at me, but I of course realized that it was impossible.  In that moment, I was struck by something; I had taken for granted this house.  And I had never realized to what extent people I dealt with, even on an occasional basis, cared for me.  I suppose this sacred place to me was more sacred still.  It seemed that even the seemingly insignificant people in your life can leave a lasting impact.

To live no lives at all… I suppose in death, I truly found life; though not in the ‘going to be someone someday’ sense, or the ‘work towards my next big goal’ sense.  The reader finished my eulogy and an uncomfortable silence filled the room.  It was in that moment I decided to allow myself to escape.  I was watching everyone present deal with my loss in individual ways, and it was too much for me to process.  I quickly ran through the grey streets (the better my memory of a location, the richer my experience with it now… I had never paid much attention to geography) and went to a house I can never forget.  1039 Flintlock Court, the music house.  It was raining outside, but it didn’t matter to me.  I stood in the circle of grass in the middle of the court, and listened as the soft sounds of piano music floated out into the rain.  I went into the house, and looked around.  I remember the joy this place had once brought me, the many happy memories I had here.  It also functioned as an escape for me; it allowed me—even for a little while—to forget the troubles of my life.  I knew that no matter what I did, I would always be welcomed here; I would forever be greeted with a smile.  I looked to see Brenda, the kind wife of my teacher sitting at her piano.  The smile I usually found on her face was all but there; in fact it looked like she had been crying.  It seemed like she had asked my mother for a picture of me, as one was sitting on the electric piano across the room.  I walked up the staircase to the little room that out of all little rooms was the most special to me.  It was in this room, this small square room, that my talent as a musician was fostered.  Under the quick, witty, cheerful eye of my teacher, after thousands of scales, hundreds of studies, sonatas, concertos, danses, and everything else… I became a strong musician.  Every time I picked up my violin, and brought my bow to the strings, I disappeared.  I escaped into a world of emotion, a world where people and thoughts don’t exist.  It was a simple world made up of notes, dynamics, bowings, intervals, sharps, and flats.  It was a place that had rhythm but no time.  Forever was I imperfect in my art, but that was fine by me.  It was the only aspect of my life in which I allowed imperfection; embraced it even. 
                I suppose, as I think on it, that this little room with barely enough room for the furniture in it, was a consecrated place to me.  This room was my portal to another world, a world in which I could exist, but not exist. 
                I looked around the room, and was astonished at the detail with which I remembered it.  Nearly every detail was clear… only a few spots were a little blurred.  The only place I remembered with this level of clarity was my bedroom; understandable because I spent most of my time there.  But this little room hosted me for 45 minutes once a week for maybe three quarters of the year.  I spent between 5 and 6 hours a day in my bedroom.  Clearly, this room had held a special significance to me; significance I didn’t realize until much too late.  As I drifted back downstairs, the piano music stopped.  I stopped at the foot of the stairs, and was startled when Brenda looked my way.  It seemed for a moment that she was looking at me, but I of course realized that it was impossible.  In that moment, I was struck by something; I had taken for granted this house.  And I had never realized to what extent people I dealt with, even on an occasional basis, cared for me.  I suppose this sacred place to me was more sacred still.  It seemed that even the seemingly insignificant people in your life can leave a lasting impact.

(Source: bloodymary531, via where-the-measures-begin-to-fray)

All of this is rather depressing; how could one’s own funeral be exciting?  I suppose that to some, it could be joyous… but I was not this type of person.  While I was happy to escape life, the pain it caused everyone else was not worth the escape.  I suppose when I think on it, the reasons that led me to make the decision to take my own life are easy enough to understand.  A few days before June 27th, when I was not nearly 18, a close friend of mine had sent me a text message.  They explained to me, in a moment of uncharacteristic emotion and honesty, that they could not understand the pressure which I was placed under.  I remember reading this message and thinking, “Finally.  Someone understands.”                  I remember distinctly sitting in my bedroom at that point, huddled under my bed sheets despite the June heat.  Regardless of how warm it was outside, it felt cold to me.  My heart in my chest was like a hunk of ice, barely beating.  The blood in my veins was chilled, and my breath frosty.  I realize now that that was my darkest moment; my personal hell so to speak.  This was the moment when my perceived inadequacy hit a peak.  I understand now that what I was experiencing afflicted many people my age; I was just too absorbed in my own pain to realize it.      There are simple explanations as to why I felt so desperately lost in myself.  Perhaps they are insignificant in themselves; together they seemed insurmountable.  I had over the course of my high school days completely ruined my family; I destroyed the relationship I had with my father (though that destruction didn’t require much effort on my part).  Through this, I effectively ended the relationship I had once had with his family.  I was an outcast among them, misunderstood and disliked.  Additionally, my perfectionist view on school crushed me.  I worked hard to achieve marks; what I realize now to have been pointless.  Combined with my efforts to achieve was my job.  The hours I spent earning money for the future chewed into time I should have been spending on my homework assignments.  I therefore cut into my sleep time far more often than I am pleased to admit.  While on the topic of my job, my position could not have been better suited for me; dealing with people directly, while not having a great deal of direction.  However, any mistake I made was heavily scrutinized.  This harsh scrutiny pervaded all aspects of my life; I felt like I was forever attempting to live up to people’s expectations.  Never before had I had to apologize for not being perfect.  Furthermore, my struggles with the social outlay of people my age disturbed me.  While being accepted as a member of several social circles at school, I was an outcast at home in two ways: my family no longer accepted me, and the ‘friends’ I had at school left me completely excluded from everything they did.  At school, I was a happy socialite; at home, a lonely teenager.  Perhaps most troubling of all was the lack of affection I felt so very often.  Maybe this lack of love I felt was a symptom of everything else and I was exaggerating it, but to me it seemed very real.  My heart had so much love to give, and my mind required as much in return; however it was absent in every sense.  All of these thoughts whirled through my mind, chilled by my freezing blood.  Under the covers in my bedroom, on the 27th of June, I fell asleep; though not in my bed.  I fell asleep in my own She’ol; completely isolated.  While I slept, I didn’t dream… I hadn’t dreamt in who knows how long.  I didn’t have the energy to dream, nor did I have the drive.  Dreams are for people with a future, and I had lost mine.                  I was an antithesis in and of myself, as I think on it now.  In person, no one would ever guess exactly the magnitude of my pain.  I seemed to be a generally jubilant person, success spreading over most aspects of my life.  However in secret I had many demons that I fought with.  But I could never reveal this to anyone; strength of character is based on reputation, regardless of what anyone says.  It is what we have seen a person do that we base our judgement of them on.  If all you see of a person is a fearless ‘daredevil’, then you will assume that is who they are.  If all you see of a person is a shy recluse, then you will assume that is who they are.  If you see the sadness behind someone’s smile, you will never notice their smile again.  You will be forced to assume that the only component of their character is overarching sadness; you will assume their happiness is false.  The reputation of someone suffering with depression isn’t exactly a great one, so I sought to avoid it.  I was the best I could be when in the spotlight, enjoying everything as much as I could, while keeping my suffering to myself.  How I appeared to be, and the harsher reality were binary opposites in some aspects.  Living a double life became far too difficult for me, so I chose the easiest solution to this.                To live no lives at all.

All of this is rather depressing; how could one’s own funeral be exciting?  I suppose that to some, it could be joyous… but I was not this type of person.  While I was happy to escape life, the pain it caused everyone else was not worth the escape.  I suppose when I think on it, the reasons that led me to make the decision to take my own life are easy enough to understand.  A few days before June 27th, when I was not nearly 18, a close friend of mine had sent me a text message.  They explained to me, in a moment of uncharacteristic emotion and honesty, that they could not understand the pressure which I was placed under.  I remember reading this message and thinking, “Finally.  Someone understands.” 
                I remember distinctly sitting in my bedroom at that point, huddled under my bed sheets despite the June heat.  Regardless of how warm it was outside, it felt cold to me.  My heart in my chest was like a hunk of ice, barely beating.  The blood in my veins was chilled, and my breath frosty.  I realize now that that was my darkest moment; my personal hell so to speak.  This was the moment when my perceived inadequacy hit a peak.  I understand now that what I was experiencing afflicted many people my age; I was just too absorbed in my own pain to realize it.
     There are simple explanations as to why I felt so desperately lost in myself.  Perhaps they are insignificant in themselves; together they seemed insurmountable.  I had over the course of my high school days completely ruined my family; I destroyed the relationship I had with my father (though that destruction didn’t require much effort on my part).  Through this, I effectively ended the relationship I had once had with his family.  I was an outcast among them, misunderstood and disliked.  Additionally, my perfectionist view on school crushed me.  I worked hard to achieve marks; what I realize now to have been pointless.  Combined with my efforts to achieve was my job.  The hours I spent earning money for the future chewed into time I should have been spending on my homework assignments.  I therefore cut into my sleep time far more often than I am pleased to admit.  While on the topic of my job, my position could not have been better suited for me; dealing with people directly, while not having a great deal of direction.  However, any mistake I made was heavily scrutinized.  This harsh scrutiny pervaded all aspects of my life; I felt like I was forever attempting to live up to people’s expectations.  Never before had I had to apologize for not being perfect.  Furthermore, my struggles with the social outlay of people my age disturbed me.  While being accepted as a member of several social circles at school, I was an outcast at home in two ways: my family no longer accepted me, and the ‘friends’ I had at school left me completely excluded from everything they did.  At school, I was a happy socialite; at home, a lonely teenager.  Perhaps most troubling of all was the lack of affection I felt so very often.  Maybe this lack of love I felt was a symptom of everything else and I was exaggerating it, but to me it seemed very real.  My heart had so much love to give, and my mind required as much in return; however it was absent in every sense.  All of these thoughts whirled through my mind, chilled by my freezing blood.  Under the covers in my bedroom, on the 27th of June, I fell asleep; though not in my bed.  I fell asleep in my own She’ol; completely isolated.  While I slept, I didn’t dream… I hadn’t dreamt in who knows how long.  I didn’t have the energy to dream, nor did I have the drive.  Dreams are for people with a future, and I had lost mine. 
                I was an antithesis in and of myself, as I think on it now.  In person, no one would ever guess exactly the magnitude of my pain.  I seemed to be a generally jubilant person, success spreading over most aspects of my life.  However in secret I had many demons that I fought with.  But I could never reveal this to anyone; strength of character is based on reputation, regardless of what anyone says.  It is what we have seen a person do that we base our judgement of them on.  If all you see of a person is a fearless ‘daredevil’, then you will assume that is who they are.  If all you see of a person is a shy recluse, then you will assume that is who they are.  If you see the sadness behind someone’s smile, you will never notice their smile again.  You will be forced to assume that the only component of their character is overarching sadness; you will assume their happiness is false.  The reputation of someone suffering with depression isn’t exactly a great one, so I sought to avoid it.  I was the best I could be when in the spotlight, enjoying everything as much as I could, while keeping my suffering to myself.  How I appeared to be, and the harsher reality were binary opposites in some aspects.  Living a double life became far too difficult for me, so I chose the easiest solution to this.
                To live no lives at all.

(Source: chharliee, via where-the-measures-begin-to-fray)

I ran back to the funeral home, just in time to catch the final lines of Blest are the Pure of Heart, another hymn my mother was particularly fond of.  For this, she sang openly… her eyes glasslike.  As the final notes played out, the presiding clergymen pulled closed the curtains in front of my casket.  Fresh tears filled the eyes of those present, and in those tears I found my redemption.  I stood at the front of the room, facing those in life I had loved.  Though they could not see me, I was there with them.  The spiritual growth I had experienced in the last hour or so had caused me to realize one last thing.                  My thoughts of suicide had dragged me to my lowest point in my life, but it was this group of people that kept me strong.  I was able to push through my depression, and become a better, more complete person.  I had experienced the worst of life, and—maybe not the best—but certainly some amazing times.  It was too bad about my heart though… giving out long before it should have.  So here I stood before this amazing group of people, unable to thank them.  But as I looked, I saw that in attendance was the family I thought had forgotten me, I saw the father I had abandoned, I saw the friends I thought didn’t care about me, the co-workers I thought took me for granted, the teachers (the good and the bad), even some random strangers.                  My realization in this moment was that it was loss that forced people to consider what they really had.  In me, the gathered people had a friend, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, a son, a co-worker, a student, a teacher, a guide, a confidant.  The roles I had played in life extended even into death, regardless of what I did while alive.  It’s funny, as I think on it, that one’s death makes others think about the good qualities in a person.  Death makes people forgive the poor qualities of the deceased, and perhaps that’s the best way.  Each person knew only a certain Jared, only certain aspects of what made up my whole person.  If each person knew all of those facets, perhaps they wouldn’t be so happy to know me.  A sense of calm washed over me, knowing that I had brought together all of these people with unresolved issues.  My parents, who hadn’t spoken in years, were standing directly next to each other, with no apparent discomfort.  This astounded me; even the most lost of souls can find comfort in community.                That was when I felt it begin to happen; I could feel my soul begin to fray.  I suppose existing in this world was no longer necessary.  I had restored in myself a sense of belonging; I did have a loving family, caring friends, and a wonderful community.  I had discovered that my perceived inadequacy is what made me special; my imperfection was perfect.                  So I suppose I never found redemption in my life, but my memory would uphold it.  Ironically, the end of my story begins at, well, the beginning.  As a sense of wholeness washed over me, and as the people of my funeral began to filter out of the room, my soul continued to fray.  I forgot what my name was, I forgot the mistakes I had made, I forgot all of the pain, I forgot every moment of hatred, and I forget every passing moment of confusion and sadness.  I revelled in the remaining memories, my beloved music, every word I’d ever written, every idea, every person I had ever loved, every friendship made, and each and every laugh.  I felt a smile stretch across what remained of my conscience, and then I disappeared completely.  On to what, I don’t know… but all I know is this.                My life had been perfectly imperfect… and that was fine by me.

I ran back to the funeral home, just in time to catch the final lines of Blest are the Pure of Heart, another hymn my mother was particularly fond of.  For this, she sang openly… her eyes glasslike.  As the final notes played out, the presiding clergymen pulled closed the curtains in front of my casket.  Fresh tears filled the eyes of those present, and in those tears I found my redemption.  I stood at the front of the room, facing those in life I had loved.  Though they could not see me, I was there with them.  The spiritual growth I had experienced in the last hour or so had caused me to realize one last thing. 
                My thoughts of suicide had dragged me to my lowest point in my life, but it was this group of people that kept me strong.  I was able to push through my depression, and become a better, more complete person.  I had experienced the worst of life, and—maybe not the best—but certainly some amazing times.  It was too bad about my heart though… giving out long before it should have.  So here I stood before this amazing group of people, unable to thank them.  But as I looked, I saw that in attendance was the family I thought had forgotten me, I saw the father I had abandoned, I saw the friends I thought didn’t care about me, the co-workers I thought took me for granted, the teachers (the good and the bad), even some random strangers. 
                My realization in this moment was that it was loss that forced people to consider what they really had.  In me, the gathered people had a friend, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, a son, a co-worker, a student, a teacher, a guide, a confidant.  The roles I had played in life extended even into death, regardless of what I did while alive.  It’s funny, as I think on it, that one’s death makes others think about the good qualities in a person.  Death makes people forgive the poor qualities of the deceased, and perhaps that’s the best way.  Each person knew only a certain Jared, only certain aspects of what made up my whole person.  If each person knew all of those facets, perhaps they wouldn’t be so happy to know me.  A sense of calm washed over me, knowing that I had brought together all of these people with unresolved issues.  My parents, who hadn’t spoken in years, were standing directly next to each other, with no apparent discomfort.  This astounded me; even the most lost of souls can find comfort in community.
                That was when I felt it begin to happen; I could feel my soul begin to fray.  I suppose existing in this world was no longer necessary.  I had restored in myself a sense of belonging; I did have a loving family, caring friends, and a wonderful community.  I had discovered that my perceived inadequacy is what made me special; my imperfection was perfect. 
                So I suppose I never found redemption in my life, but my memory would uphold it.  Ironically, the end of my story begins at, well, the beginning.  As a sense of wholeness washed over me, and as the people of my funeral began to filter out of the room, my soul continued to fray.  I forgot what my name was, I forgot the mistakes I had made, I forgot all of the pain, I forgot every moment of hatred, and I forget every passing moment of confusion and sadness.  I revelled in the remaining memories, my beloved music, every word I’d ever written, every idea, every person I had ever loved, every friendship made, and each and every laugh.  I felt a smile stretch across what remained of my conscience, and then I disappeared completely.  On to what, I don’t know… but all I know is this.
                My life had been perfectly imperfect… and that was fine by me.

(via where-the-measures-begin-to-fray)