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letra de i'm still here - detelj

i gripped the backpack tight and looked around and begin to leave, walking ahead and outside. she wouldn’t tell me anything for the first few minutes, but she wouldn’t stop looking at me and crying. this didn’t bother me given certain circ-mstances of events at home, the night before. she might’ve been drunk. my step dad and i got into a fight. i told them “i hope they all die,” calling them “pieces of sh-t” and screaming. i told them i would k!ll them, probably said i’ll k!ll myself. my step dad had me pinned down on the floor. i don’t know where my sister was and i don’t remember much other than lying in bed screaming how much i hated everyone with the door locked

around me were posters of serial k!llers and horror movies, my favorite bands, video games. so watching my mom cry at eight in the morning didn’t really phase me when i had all this other stuff to look at. we arrived at the hospital in hartford and she explained i was sick. i needed help. then she pulled out letters and multiple pages of letters i had written, she had found in my room only because it would not be my actions the night before but a phone call from a friend’s mother. i’d have band practice at this friend’s house, to write in my free time, she also found letters. over the time since i moved to canton, in eighth grade, i had written hundreds of violent graphic letters, drawn hundreds of a plans. so many, i was leaving bread crumbs

i’m sure a doctor truly understands how this all feels so far, right? i’m not going to explain my full story and my recovery took years. i didn’t go back to school for over a month, therapy was a routine, and i know what it’s like to try to break five-inch thick gl-ss with a fifty pound chair. i know what it’s like to punch plexigl-ss windows. to be in a room with padded walls and floors. there were a lot of us there. a lot of us didn’t need to be. to the doctor on tv, to the news channels, to the president, to the victims, to the shooter, this isn’t mental illness, this is miscommunication. this is a product of your environment, this is a lack of care and decency

had i been able to sit at a lunch table when i first moved and not be ridiculed just brcause i was new and try to fit in. had i not been given att-tude from teachers while watching them treat other students differently? had i not been going home to verbal abuse or family blowouts. had i not been pants in gym. had i not just gotten my -ss kicked and had people, the common sense, and mutual respect to introduce themselves and be inviting…none of this would have been conjured up into my fourteen year-old head. and had i not found something i love: this writing and music. people were going to die
and that’s just the honest truth. so i just want to ask the doctor “was going through all that part of your curriculum?” because from what i now understand at twenty-five years-old is most of the people who terrorized me were always telling me what was wrong with me. the few friends i have now are the ones who ask what’s wrong. again this in not mental illness, this is miscommunication. this is for the people who are like the person i just described. you can get through this. you need to so we can tell our stories. we have the real answers. you can make something beautiful out of this cause michelangelo didn’t carve the statue of david in a day

hey teacher
leave them kids alone
hey teacher
leave them kids alone
i know you feel

- detelj

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