Author has written 12 stories for NCIS, Glee, and Harry Potter.
Hi! I'm a college senior and I'm pretty new to this website, but I'm enjoying reading all these amazing stories, and writing some as well. :)
I love NCIS, Harry Potter, and Glee so that's what my stories are about!
My favorite pairings:
Halfway to Nowhere
by: the author
“This way, this way,” whispers the present,
While the future beckons, like a friendly valet.
“No, here; no, here,” gestures lonely past,
As I vainly try to meet everyone halfway.
My family caress with those familiar eyes,
Saying, “We’re extremely proud.”
But the ‘me’ they idealize
Is a dead personality, behind a shroud.
They think I’m going this way,
When I’m headed the other direction.
But what am I supposed to say?
They can’t see past this fake perfection.
They would be so disappointed and shocked
To realize that the real me isn’t the same.
For the real me, a foul mouth is easily unlocked.
The persona I bear each day is but a name.
They would be devastated and broken
To find the real me isn’t so faithful—
I gave up religion; my fake prayer is a token.
This false adoration is simply wasteful.
They would be ashamed and horrified
To find the real me isn’t so pure.
I can’t even discuss what I’ve glorified.
The woman I present is not so demure.
It's me they would loath
If they saw that I'm not so straight.
I can't help if I like two genders-men and women both.
For the true me, it's impossible to control fate.
They expect me to head down this perfect path
To a future, unknown, but certain to last,
And I feel caught in the middle, fearing their wrath
If I were to take away the veil I have cast.
I’m stuck between two roads
With the option of only taking their’s
If I still want love bestowed
Upon me in a world where no one else cares.
But I continue to live as this secret me,
Silently refusing to give into their ways.
So, I’m standing with my feet pointing oppositely,
Praying that this is all just a phase.
I’m slowly losing my identity
And the universe doesn’t even see.
I’m halfway where they want me to be
And halfway to where I could be free.
I’m halfway to no-where—unable to be me.
It's been one of those days again (despite the fact that I'm medication, they still happen - though not as horrible as they once were), so I thought I’d share with you all what depression feels like...
It’s that feeling that rises up from nowhere to consume you. It’s subtle at first, like a fire’s flames lick the very edge of a beloved object, then it swallows you whole until you are left in nothingness. That which you fear most takes you alive and you watch your dreams burn and float away as ashes on the wind.
Everyone else goes blindly about their days, oblivious, as you wallow in despair, pushing them away once again. This merciless monster, this phantom pain that attempts to rip a hole in your soul, has taken your identity but no one notices. They don’t understand why you spend your days avoiding their company and they snidely inform you that you need to “be happy” as if it were only that easy; as if it’s your fault and you possessed the stupidity to ever ask the gods above to bestow this torture on you in the first place.
They have no idea of the guilt that grabs and squeezes your soul dry (because who are you to feel unhappy when you are so blessed?) until you are so numb you cannot even force a smile anymore. Deep in your heart, your very essence is dying and you know that this isn’t what you want.
Slowly, the pain recedes over time and you emerge from that dark, musty vessel that was once yourself to join the living again. They don’t comment and accept you back into the fold as if you never left; as if they never cared about what you were going through, because they can’t understand. They assume that it was just a phase or a bout of moodiness that everyone tends to find themselves in the throes of once and a while.
What they don’t realize is that this shadow is ever looming, threatening like storm clouds on the horizon, to pull you back into its cold, embracing arms. And when you find yourself giving into it’s magnetic presence once again, they don’t get it.
You suddenly find those things that once thrilled you, to mean nothing at all. You don’t want to play the piano. You don’t want to write. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to watch television. You don’t want to do anything except disappear.
The cycle repeats itself as they tell you to “man up” and, because no one can understand, you sit alone in your dark room and grasp desperately for the only semblance of oblivion that you can find in sleep.
There are no tears; you are too numb. There is no anger; you are too cold. Only guilt remains, lapping at the very edges of your mind as you succumb to sweet sleep, the only means of coping with this depression.
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