This is not cool, by the way

This is not cool, by the way. This is not a Hollywood script.

It's not Juno or Napoleon Dynamite or anything with Michael

Cera in it. (As much as I love those films)

It may have looked that way on the outside. I may have been

quirky and eccentric, but also well-spoken and self-possessed. I

may have sauntered around looking confident and mature, and

willing to ignore my imperfections. But just below that ego-driven

surface, the princess who wished to slay the dragon and walk

barefoot over hot coals, and, frankly, do anything that could prove

her womanhood, was still driven by the child within. I was still

playing games - it's just the playground had changed.

There is that thing about playing with fire, though. Suddenly,

hearts were broken, and depression was real. And I talked of

suicide. I can tell you that I never came close to really killing

myself. But the truth is, I did want to die. That's how hard the

pain gripped me at times. I'm glad I never tried, but I don't think

I'm any better than the ones who did.

I could have used some help. I'm not blaming anyone who was

there at the time, because I'm sure I did my best to look okay. But I'm

concerned for the readers who identify a little too much with all of this.

A lot of you are well aware that you are struggling, and you know you

don't have the support you need. I'm not a counselor, so I don't want

to give you bad advice. All I can say, as someone who's been through

major depressions and come out okay (give or take), is ask for help.

And ask for help. And keep asking. And if you end up in a room with

an idiot high school counselor (not that they all are, but that one

surely was), you are allowed to think he or she is a dick, and that

their advice stinks, but don't let that stop you from asking. Just ask

someone else. Ask friends, ask teachers, ask someone cool you just

met yesterday, ask books, ask music, ask the stars - ask God, if you

want (it works, but I didn't figure that out until much, much later).

JUST KEEP ASKING.

I was blessed with a lot of simple things that got me through -

like great friends. I was blessed to still be driven by the child

within, who could fall in love with pop stars and find meaning in

their love songs. And I was blessed with a short attention span,

so if I waited long enough, the seasons would change, and I would

find myself in a different place. If you find an ounce of immaturity

in my poetry, I say thank God. Because that little bit of fairy dust

that was stuck to the bottom of my wand really fucking helped me

through.

* * *

LOVE DOGS, by Rumi

One night a man was crying,

Allah! Allah!

His lips grew sweet with the praising,

until a cynic said,

"So! I have heard you

calling out, but have you ever

gotten any response?"

The man had no answer to that.

He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.

He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,

in a thick, green foliage.

"Why did you stop praising?"

"Because I've never heard anything back."

"This longing

you express IS the return message."

The grief you cry out from

draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness

that wants help

is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.

That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs

no one knows the names of.

Give your life

to be one of them.