To This Day by Shane Koyczan

This work of art is so incredibly beautiful.  It’s a poem about growing up bullied and hopeless and how it affects us as adults.  His words of encouragement to all of us are so lovely.  I’ve added the lyrics here, just because I love to read them.  I’ll put my favorite parts in bold.  Tell me your favorite lines!!!

When I was a kid
I used to think that pork chops and karate chops
were the same thing
I thought they were both pork chops
and because my grandmother thought it was cute
and because they were my favourite
she let me keep doing it

not really a big deal

one day
before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees
I fell out of a tree
and bruised the right side of my body

I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it
because I was afraid I’d get in trouble
for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been

a few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise
and I got sent to the principal’s office
from there I was sent to another small room
with a really nice lady
who asked me all kinds of questions
about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie
as far as I was concerned
life was pretty good
I told her “whenever I’m sad
my grandmother gives me karate chops”

this led to a full scale investigation
and I was removed from the house for three days
until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises

news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school
and I earned my first nickname

pork chop

to this day
I hate pork chops

I’m not the only kid
who grew up this way
surrounded by people who used to say
that rhyme about sticks and stones
as if broken bones
hurt more than the names we got called
and we got called them all
so we grew up believing no one
would ever fall in love with us
that we’d be lonely forever
that we’d never meet someone
to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us
in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues
as we tried to empty ourselves
so we would feel nothing
don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
that an ingrown life
is something surgeons can cut away
that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does

she was eight years old
our first day of grade three
when she got called ugly
we both got moved to the back of the class
so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls
but the school halls were a battleground
where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day
we used to stay inside for recess
because outside was worse
outside we’d have to rehearse running away
or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there
in grade five they taped a sign to her desk
that read beware of dog

to this day
despite a loving husband
she doesn’t think she’s beautiful
because of a birthmark
that takes up a little less than half of her face
kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer
that someone tried to erase
but couldn’t quite get the job done
and they’ll never understand
that she’s raising two kids
whose definition of beauty
begins with the word mom
because they see her heart
before they see her skin
that she’s only ever always been amazing

he
was a broken branch
grafted onto a different family tree
adopted
but not because his parents opted for a different destiny
he was three when he became a mixed drink
of one part left alone
and two parts tragedy
started therapy in 8th grade
had a personality made up of tests and pills
lived like the uphills were mountains
and the downhills were cliffs
four fifths suicidal
a tidal wave of anti depressants
and an adolescence of being called popper
one part because of the pills
and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty
he tried to kill himself in grade ten
when a kid who still had his mom and dad
had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression
is something that can be remedied
by any of the contents found in a first aid kit

to this day
he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends
could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends
in the moments before it’s about to fall
and despite an army of friends
who all call him an inspiration
he remains a conversation piece between people
who can’t understand
sometimes becoming drug free
has less to do with addiction
and more to do with sanity

we weren’t the only kids who grew up this way
to this day
kids are still being called names
the classics were
hey stupid
hey spaz
seems like each school has an arsenal of names
getting updated every year
and if a kid breaks in a school
and no one around chooses to hear
do they make a sound?
are they just the background noise
of a soundtrack stuck on repeat
when people say things like
kids can be cruel?
every school was a big top circus tent
and the pecking order went
from acrobats to lion tamers
from clowns to carnies
all of these were miles ahead of who we were
we were freaks
lobster claw boys and bearded ladies
oddities
juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal
but at night
while the others slept
we kept walking the tightrope
it was practice
and yeah
some of us fell

but I want to tell them
that all of this shit
is just debris
leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought
we used to be
and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself
get a better mirror
look a little closer
stare a little longer
because there’s something inside you
that made you keep trying
despite everyone who told you to quit
you built a cast around your broken heart
and signed it yourself
you signed it
“they were wrong”
because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique
maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything
maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth
to show and tell but never told
because how can you hold your ground
if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it
you have to believe that they were wrong

they have to be wrong

why else would we still be here?
we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog
because we see ourselves in them
we stem from a root planted in the belief
that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway
and if in some way we are
don’t worry
we only got out to walk and get gas
we are graduating members from the class of
fuck off we made it
not the faded echoes of voices crying out
names will never hurt me

of course
they did

but our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain
and more to do with beauty.

I’m in love.  Please please tell me your favorite lines, or your reactions to this, or whatever.

on the effects of suicide.

A member of my roommate’s family committed suicide on Sunday night. And honestly…my beautiful, caring, soulful, goofy roommate is broken now. She looks dizzy and lost and completely baffled, and she isn’t even his mother, or his father, or his big brother. I can’t imagine what they look like.

This post is mainly to show what happens after someone we love commits suicide, either for those who are thinking about it or for those who see the signs in someone else. Because it hurts. It hurts everyone. Like absolute hell. It hurts even people who didn’t know he existed before he committed this violent act of self-harm. It hurts people he never imagined being affected by him or his actions. My past (to be explained later in this post) makes stuff like this pretty damn tough. And that’s nothing compared to the pain his family feels.

I know he can’t see that. Or couldn’t. I really do get that. I’ve been suicidal. I didn’t care about my parents’ feelings about my life and I didn’t even think about anyone else. The main reason I didn’t do anything was because I knew it would be incredibly selfish, and I didn’t want to hate myself any more than I already did. He was so tied up with his own personal hell that it would never have been possible.

Because he couldn’t think about them, I’ll think about those other people for him. I’ll think about his parents, his big brother, his aunts and uncles and grandparents. I’ll think about his classmates and his teachers and his best friend from second grade. The minister who will perform his funeral rites. His parents’ work friends. People he’s never met and never known…like me.

I know his brother blames himself. I heard my roommate on the phone with him. She was trying so hard not to cry, trying so hard to stay strong for a guy who absolutely needs someone he trusts and loves to tell him that he did nothing wrong. Will he ever believe that it isn’t his fault? After all, we’re supposed to know our families inside and out and backwards, even when they lock their emotions away and put on a perfect act. Right? How could anyone miss the signs, however small they might have been? How could we dare to be selfish when someone we care about so incredibly much has this evil beast locked inside, when they’re locked in a battle of life and death? How could we possibly miss that?

To be honest…I wouldn’t be able to get rid of that guilt. I would live the rest of my life knowing that I could have done something (anything) more and I hadn’t done it. Even if he’d resented my attempt at rescue forever, at least he’d be alive. And that’s always better than being dead. Right? I pray and pray that he accepts that it wasn’t his fault, that it couldn’t have been his fault, that he lets go of that guilt and he’s able to live his life without such a painful burden.

I’ve known people who have attempted suicide. I’ve seen people attempt suicide. I’ve seen people attempt suicide and tell me it’s my fault they want to do it. So…I know the guilt. I know the pain of betraying their trust and calling an ambulance, or parents, or whoever. I get it. And I now know it’s not my fault…but when I was 19, and again when I was 20, I was terrified of myself. Who’d have known that I could be so evil?

I carried that guilt for a couple of years. I carried the knowledge that two people had wanted to die because I had made their lives total hell. On the surface, I’d tell people that I knew it wasn’t my fault, and I’d even tell myself that. Somewhere down there though, I felt like I was evil. It wasn’t until I told a therapist these stories that the guilt started to lift. She asked me to look her in the eye, and she told me that it was not my fault. She told me that I am not responsible for anyone else’s emotions. She told me that there were major issues in these peoples’ lives way before I came along. I don’t know how many times she repeated those things, but she only stopped when I finally swallowed, hesitated, then nodded my acceptance of her words. I walked out of that room about 50 pounds lighter, and at least a year younger.

The point of all of this babble is to make anyone understand how widespread the effects of one death can be. My roommate’s family member brought up all of this pain again for me, and additional pain for him, his battles, and now his family and friends’ struggle to cope. I never knew the guy. I still don’t know his name. I did not know he existed until he committed suicide. And all of the above…that’s just my hurt. There are so many other people in this world who are hurting so much more than I am over this boy.

So think about all of that. Think about all of that when you see signs of a dragon, when you feel your own prepare for a fatal blow. Do something about it. Do anything about it. Ignoring it, or indulging it, only causes pain.