Teddy Bear Blues
September 12, 2002 1:15 a.m.
I did not write the following story, but it's still very special to me. I just thought I'd share it with you all."Life as a Teddy Bear"
Guess you’ve never imagined life as a teddy bear. I have to. I sit on your bed all day thinking about it. There’s not much else really to think about. I have for the past fifteen years.
I remember when you were two years old and Momma put me in your lap. You were so happy to see me. We looked at each other and both knew this would be the beginning of something special. It was. You never went to sleep without me. Momma and Daddy had to stop all of your crying by getting me out and giving me to you.
Four years old, that’s when you started talking to me. At first you talked about me, like a friend. This is when you started talking to me. It made me feel important. You even gave me a name. I wasn’t just your friend anymore; I was part of the family. That’s the year Johnny got that goo on me. You were so mad. You screamed and screamed. The washing machine was scary. You never let me go back there since (Thank you!).
Remember when you were ten and Momma made you put some of your stuffed animals in the attic because there were too many in your room? You held me close and said, “All but Angel.” I felt bad that you had to give up all of your friends. I was lonelier around here.
Now, you’re 16. You still keep me on your bed during the day and hold me close at night. I like it on your bed, but I like it better in your arms. Lately I’ve been thinking, though. I’ve been thinking that I want to be more than just a teddy bear to you. I want to actually do something for you. You call me Angel, now I want to be one. Sometimes I want to stop imagining being a teddy bear and instead imagine being an angel. Your angel.
Over the years I have seen you go through so much pain. Sometimes you go off to more dangerous escapes, more harmful ways to deal with that pain. It’s not drugs, you hate drugs; not alcohol, Daddy was an alcoholic. I know all your answers lie in your scars. Those dreadful scars that you wear everywhere you go. You don’t mind them much anymore. It still bothers me. They still scare me in my sleep. I need to be your angel. I need to save you from yourself.
I see you writing a lot. You listen to songs about pain. Sometimes you’ll invite me to watch a sad movie that will make you cry. I see that you’re hurt. You’ve talked about hurting yourself on the inside to smile on the outside. You force yourself to hide your pain from the world, wishing you could smile on the inside too. You don’t smile much around me anymore, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here for you. I’ve seen you hurt yourself on the outside, trying to kill the thing on the inside. When it’s done, I’ll still be here for you. I’ve counted five million tears, one hundred heartbreaks, a thousand losses, five hundred sad songs and one million times you tried to hide the pain. I’ve been here for every tear that has stung you, every endless minute that makes you feel more alone, every word you sang that brought one more tear, every time you wish you were stronger. I know that you’re lonely; I know that loneliness can kill you so slowly. I know how hard it is to be separated from the world. I wish I could tell you how strong you are. I worry about you. I worry that some day you’ll decide to just give up. I wish I could tell you the right thing to stop your tears. I wish I could be your angel. I wish, I really wish, that I could take away your pain.
“Angel,” you cry softly, holding me tight as you can, “I wish I could make this pain go away. I wish I were stronger.”
But you are strong. Oh, I wish I could tell you. If only you saw half of the strength I saw in you…
“It’s not fair! Why is the world against me? Why do I always feel this pain? Why doesn’t anyone care?”
Nothing’s really fair. The world isn’t against you. It’s not your fault, no one just said, “let’s cause her pain.” God gives you no more pain than He thinks you can handle. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but God knows how strong you are, if only you could see it the way we do. I care. I really care; I care more than you’d ever know.
You continue to cry, holding me tighter and closer. “I wish you could listen, I wish you could talk to me. Tell me that everything’s going to be alright.”
I listen to you all the time. I wish you could hear me. I wish I could really talk to you. I wish I could tell you that everything’s going to be alright. I wish I could help you so bad.
You’re bringing me to school today. You don’t talk to anyone in the hall as you pass them. You only look down as you walk and you never keep eye contact with anyone. You’re always alone. You either sit in the back corner of the room, where no one can notice you or in the front, where you don’t have to notice them. We reach the class that you have to bring me to. You cautiously stand up in front of the class and hold me close. “This is Angel, she’s my teddy bear. I like stuffed animals… that’s why I brought her.” You look like you’re ready to cry. Please don’t. It’s going to be alright.
We’re back in the safety of your bed. You hold me close and gently talk to me, “We both know that I didn’t bring you there just because I like stuffed animals. You’re the only friend I have. You’re the only one who seems to care; you’re the only who’ll ever understand my pain, understand me.”
Last night you cried yourself to sleep again. I wish I could be your angel so bad. I wish I could make you feel better. I wish I could take away your pain. I wish I could help you. You don’t know how much I want to be your angel. If I could tell you one thing in the world, I would tell you that I care about you, that I worry about you, that I love you, that everything is going to get better, everything will be alright.
You’re home now. You’re crying again. I wish I could talk to you, I wish I could comfort you, I wish I could stop you from reaching for that blade. Another cut, please, no more; it’s killing me. This time you’re not cutting your leg. You always cut your leg. You’re cutting your wrists. Why are you doing this? Please, stop! You look up at me. “No more pain… no more tears… no more losses… no more…” You continue to cut. Your hands are shaking violently. Slowly you take the bottle filled with mis-matched pills. You count them out as you take them. I know you can stop at anytime. I know you can stop at ten or twenty or even thirty, but you won’t stop. I scream for you to stop, but you can’t hear me. You toss the empty bottle aside. No more blade in your hand, no more bottle of mismatched pills. Your body shakes. Your words tremble as you speak to me. You hold me closer than you have before. You cry as you curl up, holding me even closer. You close your eyes as more tears form and you lay your head back to rest. Slowly your grip on me loosens, your shaking fades, your tears stop.
I wish I could have been your angel. I wish I could have helped you. You’re gone now, but I’m still here. Your bed is empty at nights, but I still sit on it. If you could have heard me once, just once… I can’t take this pain. It hurts so much to always be on your empty bed. It kills never to hear you sing again. I wish there were some way I could have stopped you. I realize now, in my own loneliness, that I never could have been your angel. You needed to be your own. Neither of us realized that until it was too late. I couldn’t have stopped you, though. You couldn’t hear me. It’s hard to imagine being a teddy bear.
