What is it that makes people seemingly want to give up their life so quickly? Many people have problems in their lives; some more than others. To one person, they feel that breaking up with their boyfriend/girlfriend is the end of the world and think as such. To another person, the death of a family member, a financial loss, or a friends death are real problems where these thoughts are somewhat natural. These are all reasons to think of committing suicide, but there is a small catch. All these scenarios, people no more than thirteen years old have to deal with. These people, feeling that their parents "Won't understand", lock their feelings to themselves. Some lucky souls have friends to turn to when these troubling times arise; some have nothing but themselves to turn to.
For myself, I never had friends to turn to during these times. I had to rely on myself for every traumatic experience I ever had; it's not a fun thing. Where as some can cry on a friends shoulder and hear their comforting words, I, instead, would have to cry into my pillow with no one to talk to. Through my own personal experience and life, I've learned a great deal about people and the world; in fact, I learned too much too soon. I always believed that I had been condemned since I was born, an idea that still is always with me.
A few years ago, I had had enough with my life. Lots of problems, both personal, financial, and school, fell on me at the same time. I was behind the wheel of a very fast car when my thoughts converged to the idea of committing suicide over all the pressure. That was one attempt I never made though because almost ready to, I decided not to at the last minute. My next closest to ever happening experience was a while after that; a troubled time where a simple movie cartoon character opened my eyes. That was the night I learned a valuable lesson from. Never give up no matter what happens.
First, maybe I should talk about something I'm sure many people have at one time or another experienced or felt. It's more prominent in some people, and in others almost non-existent. What I'm talking about is being an outcast. Yes, I consider myself one, but to others I may seem a happy person who gets along well with others. I'm not, and there are only certain people I can feel at ease with; people like myself. I've "come out of my shell" a little over the past two years, but before then, I was the one who sat alone at the lunch table, the one who was last picked over a game of dodgeball, the one that no one really cared for at all. It hurt, and topped with being a martyr for the entire student body most of my life, it also gave me a low self esteem, no self worth, and formed me into a very pessimistic person.
My personal definition of an outcast is; a person who is somehow different, and treated as such; a "black sheep" so different from others around them, that instead of understanding, people instead hurt. This is the only way I've ever been treated. I doubt being beat up by three others my own age (seven or eight at the time) at the school bus stop can constitute fair, let alone show maturity or understanding in the aggressors.
People are mean; that's a given, but some are meaner than others. Where one person might hurt another once, regret and brood over it, truly sorry, another would do it just for the pleasure of showing who is in control. Imagine being so disliked at the age of thirteen and going to middle school where when you entered the room, everyone said some snide remark out of haste. It's something I was used to and still am, but where as it might have bothered me once, it doesn't anymore. There's a simple psychology to this; something I've deemed as a sort of passive ignoring of hurtful comments. Before, where I would feel like crying to everything someone told me, afterwards, I could care less, even though it did still hurt to some degree. It was simple to learn, as are most things humans learn. If there's a problem, you find a way to fix it.
Friends are something relatively new to me. To date, I have only a few true friends and unfortunately, they all live out of state. Since I was in elementary school, I've grown up with the same people all the way through high school. The same jerks who scared me into sitting in the front of the bus for fear of being beat up in the back and who made me into this introverted, pessimistic person, I graduated with last year. It wasn't until high school though that I actually made friends, or to me, people who I felt safe being around. Along with the peons that traveled with me from middle school, people who didn't know me came from other middle schools. These people, I found, were fresh in their thoughts and unprejudiced against me. So, in my freshman year of high school, I had finally found friends; something I had thought I would never have.
High school is the only part of my life that I can remember as being significant. Many things changed, both for good and bad. Along with friends, the problems I had seemed to be magnified tenfold. Instead of name calling, people wanted to fight now. I managed to avoid fights by just ignoring the aggressors, but the name calling carried over to some new people. The names weren't important, simply derogatory statements said to me so that whoever said them could feel as if they were really brave and manly. Even though things were somewhat better, they were still bad.
After almost three years of high school, my life delved into a dark region; a region where suicide loomed on my mind almost every day. Then, one day, I stopped thinking and acted.
It wasn't an attempt until a factor came in and made it into one. I was behind the wheel of a very fast car, my grandmothers 1996 Lincoln Mark VIII, speeding fast on a stretch of Patterson Avenue far out in Goochland county. Coming down a hill going at least a hundred miles an hour, I slowed down to eighty six miles per hour when I crested a hill, a cop coming the opposite way clocking. The past few years of my life, coupled with recent events that week, such as being called a "lazy ungrateful bastard" by my grandmother because I had a rough week in school and simply wanted to sleep in, were running through my head while I was speeding. Coming out of my thoughts, I began to slow down.
Upon seeing the red and blue lights flash, I was caught unaware, and the instinct to run took over. I floored the accelerator, sending the car vaulting back up past one hundred miles per hour. Shocked and scared to death, seeing that the cop was a mere speck seemingly miles behind me, I tried to outrun her. The thoughts of wanting to veer off the road an into the heavily wooded woods on each side of the road were strong. Pulling off the road and backing up into a hidden driveway running parallel with the road, and hidden by trees, I waited until the cop pulled in front of me. I sat in the car watching as she seemed to take forever inside, and then, finally she came waddling over to me. I had taken the keys out and put them up on the dashboard, but that didn't seem to be of any help. All I remember is her yelling at me, saying I could have killed someone. I just cried as everything came down on me, just shy of a nervous breakdown.
The next few days were hard on me. There were things I wanted to tell someone I could trust that would just listen and not tell; deep things that happened to me when I was small that no one can ever get me to tell. My friends at school and family I'm not that close to, so I bottled everything up. It was tough to brave on my own, so I decided I'd have to get help somehow; just not from anyone I knew. After thinking, I sought counseling and went on 40mg of Prozac a day. The counseling was not much help though. I didn't feel comfortable telling a person paid to act like they cared help me, but the medication I got helped.
As the months rolled by, my set court date finally came. It wasn't a good day either. I had put myself through enough to more than make up for what I had done, but nonetheless, they still slapped me with some pretty harsh penalties. The Goochland County court took my license, ordered me to do one hundred hours of community service in Goochland, and to take a driving school course. I did everything I was supposed to do, but it was still something that I felt was not necessary.
Sometime in February, I had finished half of my community service when more problems with school starting to pile up on me. Scared and having had enough, my first planned attempt at suicide was almost successful. Again, my school friends and family were people I wasn't comfortable talking to. I didn't trust them enough to tell them anything still. Taking things into my own hands again, I managed to get ahold of a pistolgrip shotgun from my grandparents house and sneak it home with me. I loaded it up one night, shaking, scared to death, and sat with this gun's barrel in my mouth. Thinking back to stupid prison movies of people about to die always getting a last request, I decided I'd at least get one too. Going to the living room of my house in the middle of the night, I grabbed a video my mom had gotten the same day, "The Lion King". I hadn't seen the movie shy of the massive advertising it had gotten while during the theaters. Wanting to see something stupid and turn it off so I could get what I wanted to do over with, I popped the video in my VCR and hit play.
Fast forwarding through the stupid previews for upcoming Disney bombs, I got to the opening of the movie. It was very nice I'll admit, but I was expecting something stupid and unrealistic; something circa Bambi in terms of story. The opening scene had all but proved what I thought. Musical score playing, the beginning wasn't what I had thought, but nonetheless, what followed afterwards was. About to turn the movie off, the gun between my legs pointing upwards, the beginning faded into black and the next scene faded in. I remembered running my hands through my hair shaking when I saw a small mouse come in and squeak as it ran around. Shaking my head, I had almost hit "stop" on the remote when a large orange paw flopped down on the mouse. I snorted, my finger playing on the stop button waiting to push at any moment. What I first see was a magnificent lion, and the first words I hear are "Life's not fair is it?" I can't explain what happened next, but the results were me putting the remote aside along with the shotgun and watching the movie, seeing things through Scar, the animated lion who no doubt, had saved my miserable life.
A lot of things about myself came rushing back to me as I watched. I'm sure that it was this that captivated me. There's an old saying that is usually the reply kids tell each other when they're called names: "It takes one to know one." I don't know exactly what I am, but I know where I'm coming from and that I've seen a little more than someone else of comparable age to me might have seen.
As I watched the movie, I found the annoying happy scenes sickening. Life was not like that at all for me when I grew up, and anyone being portrayed as having something so radically the opposite of me, I hated. I learned very quick growing up that it's foolish to fully trust anyone. I trusted someone who I thought was my best friend but he betrayed me in a way that has shaped me into who I am today. It is said that the young are most impressionable because they are so innocent. I got the wrong impression.
Every scene I watched that had Scar in it captivated me. It was as if I had been captured and put on the screen in the form of him. He appeared to be me in every way except I was a wimp. I had always been scared to fight back or take a stand for myself. Instead, I let everyone walk all over me; the proverbial "doormat". If I were strong, I would have ran myself off the road months before, ending my misery.
Seeing this marvelous creature on my TV, I watched tentatively, catching hints that referenced me back to my own childhood; the knowing that no one held any importance on Scar, the knowing he was never going to be anything, the knowing that he had nothing at all in his life except someone always there to bully and point these things out made me really sympathize. They all were like a magnet that drew me into this character, and for the whole time watching the movie, my heart lifted, my mind cleared, and for the first time in a great while, I was happy.
Even though I was happy for a brief moment, of course, just like everything else, it was short lived. I've learned that nothing good in my life is ever permanent. The end of the movie had come; the time for the climactic battle scenes. I watched, my nerves and hopes suspended in fear that Scar would lose. He did, but not in a way that I would or ever will call good Disney taste. Falling down a cliff, I watched, almost horrified as his so called friends closed in and supposedly ate him alive. Talk about flashbacks. Shocked, and thoroughly disgusted that Disney could ever have such bad taste with a movie, I began crying, hitting stop as more of the corniest music I ever heard played, triumphantly saying "Everything is always happy in the end".
I have come to hate "The Lion King" now. It's a big lie about how life goes on and deceives people that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, even if that tunnel is a pit they're falling into. Scar I love dearly though for many reasons. From him, even though he's an animated lion, I learned that individuals neglected their whole lives don't always find happiness; in essence, the truth of everything.
There are two sides to everything, and the side Disney chose to hide and leave 'fuzzy" in Scar is one that represents a part of me; a large part. It by no means has grown smaller. On the contrary, it gets bigger every day. His character was played out hoping that no one would take the time and look into him, let alone themselves, to find answers for why he was like he was. Of course, I've been looking into just that for over a year now; I made the time. I never expect someone to see what I see inside of five minutes, just as I'd never expect to see someone all of a sudden be able to cite the bible in the same amount of time. It's something that takes time to see and learn. That whole night was a strange one for me, and for the first time, I cared about something.
The next day, I awoke and was scared to watch the movie again. The days after that, I managed to sneak the gun back to my grandparents house without anyone ever knowing it had been gone. That day, I started collecting things of Scar; more or less an odd need to aquire everything I could get my hands on of him. As it is right now, it may seem I'm talking quite a lot about what most people might call a "silly obsession" but it is by no means silly. A cartoon lion helped me see a lot of things. As an online friend I know said to me during one of my hard times of getting criticized for what I believe:
"I know why you feel the way you do about a "cartoon character", you've been Scar. You've been the guy surrounded by everyone having a good time with nothing at all for yourself. Maybe it is a strange place for someone to find recognition, but it's yours and no one can tell you you're wrong."
Following what I'll admit is and always will be my obsession, I began to get into computers. Where as I never had friends before, I found them online. Still, I was not instantly transformed into some freak who was friends with millions of people. As a matter of fact, I am the same way online as in real life. As I began to meet people, mainly people who went through a very similar life as I did, I found out that they too liked Scar and saw the things I saw. I no longer had to feel left out or like an outcast, because, in a way, I wasn't. I found a niche of three or four people who were almost carbon copies of me, friends that I am very close to.
Along with these friends came a close trust with them unlike any other I've ever felt. Contrary to the beliefs the media gives that everyone on the internet is some sort of crossdressing ax murderer out to kill people, there are real people there. The people I met are real, and luckily the best internet friend I have lives in Reston Virginia. I plan on meeting her this year and am looking forward to the trip. She is one of the first people I have ever told my whole life too, and it was that that made us very close friends.
From the end of 1996 to the present day, I can say I have found a place in my life where I am satisfied with myself so far. I have created and maintain a huge webpage dedicated to Scar, and now, I feel as though I belong. The feeling of belonging always stems back to when I think of Scar. He badly wanted to belong somewhere but unfortunately, he never would unless he did something. He did something because he had to. It doesn't make him evil for what he did, at least to me. Instead, it makes me see someone living their whole life as I did, never a good thing happening to them, and making a decision to better themselves for once, no matter what the costs. I don't blame Scar for what he did because I have been down the road he was on. The road I'm on now seems short, but his was an infinite road full of a non-fulfilling life and ridicule.
Yes, I talk about this animated lion too much, but he's a very important part of my life. He was my savior no matter how you look at it and I can never forget it. I learned how to stand up for myself, what caring for another is like, and how to show compassion; all from an animated lion.
For the many times I've come close to killing myself, I've never done it. I'm glad I was too scared to because it has been a long hard road for me but I'm alive, and somewhat happy. I feel I have a purpose now with my life. If not to make people see that suicide is not a way, maybe it's to use Scar as an example to show people that you have to look deep inside someone instead of just believing and accepting what you are given. Take examples such as "The Phantom of the Opera", or the "Beast" from "Beauty and the Beast". We all learned from that that appearances are deceiving until you take the time to look beneath the hatred and anger. I know that if I had never gone through what I did, I would more than likely have turned out to be a stereotypical jock, only concerned with being vain and having the head cheerleader as my girlfriend. There is an underlying meaning to everything and Disney's portrayal of Scar to me is so terrible, that it's hard not for some people to at least look at him and see a hurt creature hardened by his own kinds cruelty. Some people do have choices, then again, some don't. To prove this, I use Lorenzo Carcaterra's novel, Sleepers, which I have seen the movie for. The story is about revenge, and I strongly recommend anyone who'd like to see how people turn out how they are to read or watch the movie.
In all, I've always been one to not be satisfied with what I'm told. Just as some people aren't satisfied with the government denying there is a so called Area 51 and proving that there is, I have to know myself what a person is like instead of being told. It takes time, but it's worth it to find the truth. If it can work on an animated lion, it can work on humans. I'm just glad I never gave up, because if I had, I would never have been able to say what I stated above, and believe it.