Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Too Hard
”Keep going, Mikey, you’re almost there!”
“Gee, I can’t-“
“Yes, you can!”
“Don’t let me fall!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“It’s too hard!”
“C’mon, Mikes; I believe in you!”
I can still remember when I first taught him to ride a two-wheeler. He was twelve and everyone, even little Frank Iero from next door, took the piss out of him because he still had to use stabilizers through fear of falling to the ground in a tangle of lanky long legs and nervous yelps. Of course, it wasn’t his idea for me to teach him how to ride. In fact, if anything he’d been dead set against it; telling me that he was just fine as he was. But people were taking to teasing him over it, something that I refused to watch and do nothing about, so I forced him onto my old bike, helmet fastened securely to his head. And he rode. With encouragement from my smiles and praise, he was riding around like a pro before the day was out.
I miss those days. Days back when the only important thing to him was riding a bike and not falling off.
Scrap that; I miss those days when I still had my baby brother right by my side.
”Don’t you dare listen to a word they say, Michael James.”
“I don’t want to… I just… I can’t help it.”
“I know, Mikes, I know. But don’t believe it, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s nothing but a loud of bullshit coming from pigs.”
“But, Gee, what if they’re right?”
“They’re not.”
“But why would they lie?”
“Because they’re assholes, Mikey. Just ignore them.”
“But it’s so hard, Gee. Too hard.”
“Then we’ll fight back harder.”
When I first found out that Mikey’s high school classmates, kids who had once been his friends no less, were picking on him I absolutely flipped out. I lost it completely when I found the thirteen-year-old sobbing in his room due to fifty spiteful words being five hundred too many for him to cope with. They’d wormed their way into his head, convinced him that he’s worthless and unwanted and alone and all of the things that I swore I would never let him be. I’d obviously failed there, then. He’d have come straight to me if I had been a good big brother, the kind that he could trust to look after him and soothe away their words. But by the time I found out it was already too late; he’d become numb to everything.
Including love and care and comfort.
Including hope.
”Why’d you do it, Mikes?”
“Why not?”
“Mikey!”
“What’s wrong, Gerard? You scared?”
“Y-yeah, actually.”
“Then how the fuck do you think I feel?”
“Mikey, I-“
“Do you know how it feels to know that I’m capable of tearing my wrists and thighs and tummy apart? It’s pretty fucking scary!”
“Then don’t do it, Bro. Talk to me instead, let me help you. Please.”
“No.”
“Why not, Mikes?”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I just fucking can’t, Gerard! Leave me alone.”
“What? So you can go cut yourself all over again? No fucking way.”
“Please, Gee, let me be.”
“Promise me you won’t do it again.”
“I can’t. It’s too hard not to.”
“But you’re strong, Mikey. Stronger than this.”
I honestly never saw it until the moment I found him passed-out on the bathroom floor, tears and blood still wet on his ghostly skin. Or perhaps I did see it, the odd angry scratch here and there whenever his wristbands slid down, but I just didn’t want to believe it. Other kids cut themselves, not Mikey. It’s always everyone else, never him. Never my baby brother. Apart from it was him, I just wouldn’t let myself see it until he was too far into the addiction for it to be deemed a teenage-angst-fuelled fad that meant nothing more than raging curiosity and falling in with the wrong crowd. The worst part is the way he looked at me when he woke up in my bed with bandages wrapped carefully around his torn wrists; he just looked like it was normal, like he didn’t expect me to care that he was hurting enough to hurt himself.
I thought that I could make him stop, heal him and make it go away. I also thought that he actually wanted to get better.
I was wrong on both counts.
”Mikey, you’ve got to go to the doctors about this.”
“About what, Gee? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Mikes, Kiddo, you and I both know you’re depressed. And I’m not sure I can help you with it anymore.”
“You… You don’t want me anymore?”
“No! Mikes, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re the bestest little brother in the world. You just need a bit of help, is all.”
“You think I’m fucked-up. Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. I just think that there’s something wrong with you that some antidepressants might help to fix.”
“I’m not broken.”
“I never said that you were.”
“Then how can I need fixing?”
“You’re just a little sick, that’s all. I only want you to get better.”
“What if I don’t? What if I like being this way? What if I enjoy slicing myself open every night?”
“Mikey! You told me you stopped.”
“No. You asked me and I didn’t say anything. You just shoved words in my mouth.”
“Mikey, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Gerard, but I’m done with this. It’s just too fucking hard.”
“You can’t give up, Mikey. You’re fifteen; I won’t let you give up.”
No matter how much I begged and pleaded for him to tell Mom or Dad or go to a doctor, he just wouldn’t. No matter how hard I cried and sobbed over the state he was working himself into, he never once told me that he’d get help. It got to the point where I could barely talk to him without us exploding in each other’s faces. It wasn’t his fault, though. It was the world’s for being too big and ugly for his fragile mentality. He never was a bad kid, just a little lost amidst all of the teasing and beating and bullying. That’s who I blame; the bullies. They crushed his spirit along with a few of his bones and opened the door for depression. He never meant to shout or swear or lose it with me, just like I never did him, but there’s only so much a kid can take.
Constant tormenting, non-existent self-esteem and depression?
No kid can take that. No kid should have to.
”Gee?”
“Yeah, Mikes?”
“Make it stop. Please. Just make it go away.”
“Oh, Mikey. C’mere, Kiddo.”
“I’m sorry that I shout at you all the time. I don’t mean to be an ungrateful little shit. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re a good kid, Mikes. And I love you, Bro.”
“Gee, I’m scared.”
“What of, Mikes? What’ scaring you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It’s made you cry, Mikey. Of course it fucking matters!”
“Please. Please don’t shout at me. Please.”
“Sorry, Kiddo. I didn’t mean to. But you gotta tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t want to die, Gee. I’m scared!”
“You’re not gonna die anytime soon, Mikes. Why d’you think that?”
“Because it’s too hard.”
“Mikey…”
I can still recall every aspect of the time we last spoke. Those precious moments where he gave me one final chance to help him and I did nothing other than hold him as he cried himself to sleep in my arms like he did so often when he was a toddler. Fifteen and already hopeless, so willing to give up.
Fifteen and already dead. Not just inside. Not anymore. My poor baby brother with nowhere to run to when the bullies ran at him. No. Not bullies.
Murderers.
They killed my little brother. My best friend.
I miss him. So fucking much.
I’m sorry, Gerard. It’s just too hard.
Now I think I understand how he gave up.
It really is just too fucking hard.
A/N: I don’t really like this, I think it’s kinda dull/clichéd, so sorry about that. But thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
”Keep going, Mikey, you’re almost there!”
“Gee, I can’t-“
“Yes, you can!”
“Don’t let me fall!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“It’s too hard!”
“C’mon, Mikes; I believe in you!”
I can still remember when I first taught him to ride a two-wheeler. He was twelve and everyone, even little Frank Iero from next door, took the piss out of him because he still had to use stabilizers through fear of falling to the ground in a tangle of lanky long legs and nervous yelps. Of course, it wasn’t his idea for me to teach him how to ride. In fact, if anything he’d been dead set against it; telling me that he was just fine as he was. But people were taking to teasing him over it, something that I refused to watch and do nothing about, so I forced him onto my old bike, helmet fastened securely to his head. And he rode. With encouragement from my smiles and praise, he was riding around like a pro before the day was out.
I miss those days. Days back when the only important thing to him was riding a bike and not falling off.
Scrap that; I miss those days when I still had my baby brother right by my side.
”Don’t you dare listen to a word they say, Michael James.”
“I don’t want to… I just… I can’t help it.”
“I know, Mikes, I know. But don’t believe it, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s nothing but a loud of bullshit coming from pigs.”
“But, Gee, what if they’re right?”
“They’re not.”
“But why would they lie?”
“Because they’re assholes, Mikey. Just ignore them.”
“But it’s so hard, Gee. Too hard.”
“Then we’ll fight back harder.”
When I first found out that Mikey’s high school classmates, kids who had once been his friends no less, were picking on him I absolutely flipped out. I lost it completely when I found the thirteen-year-old sobbing in his room due to fifty spiteful words being five hundred too many for him to cope with. They’d wormed their way into his head, convinced him that he’s worthless and unwanted and alone and all of the things that I swore I would never let him be. I’d obviously failed there, then. He’d have come straight to me if I had been a good big brother, the kind that he could trust to look after him and soothe away their words. But by the time I found out it was already too late; he’d become numb to everything.
Including love and care and comfort.
Including hope.
”Why’d you do it, Mikes?”
“Why not?”
“Mikey!”
“What’s wrong, Gerard? You scared?”
“Y-yeah, actually.”
“Then how the fuck do you think I feel?”
“Mikey, I-“
“Do you know how it feels to know that I’m capable of tearing my wrists and thighs and tummy apart? It’s pretty fucking scary!”
“Then don’t do it, Bro. Talk to me instead, let me help you. Please.”
“No.”
“Why not, Mikes?”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I just fucking can’t, Gerard! Leave me alone.”
“What? So you can go cut yourself all over again? No fucking way.”
“Please, Gee, let me be.”
“Promise me you won’t do it again.”
“I can’t. It’s too hard not to.”
“But you’re strong, Mikey. Stronger than this.”
I honestly never saw it until the moment I found him passed-out on the bathroom floor, tears and blood still wet on his ghostly skin. Or perhaps I did see it, the odd angry scratch here and there whenever his wristbands slid down, but I just didn’t want to believe it. Other kids cut themselves, not Mikey. It’s always everyone else, never him. Never my baby brother. Apart from it was him, I just wouldn’t let myself see it until he was too far into the addiction for it to be deemed a teenage-angst-fuelled fad that meant nothing more than raging curiosity and falling in with the wrong crowd. The worst part is the way he looked at me when he woke up in my bed with bandages wrapped carefully around his torn wrists; he just looked like it was normal, like he didn’t expect me to care that he was hurting enough to hurt himself.
I thought that I could make him stop, heal him and make it go away. I also thought that he actually wanted to get better.
I was wrong on both counts.
”Mikey, you’ve got to go to the doctors about this.”
“About what, Gee? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Mikes, Kiddo, you and I both know you’re depressed. And I’m not sure I can help you with it anymore.”
“You… You don’t want me anymore?”
“No! Mikes, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re the bestest little brother in the world. You just need a bit of help, is all.”
“You think I’m fucked-up. Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. I just think that there’s something wrong with you that some antidepressants might help to fix.”
“I’m not broken.”
“I never said that you were.”
“Then how can I need fixing?”
“You’re just a little sick, that’s all. I only want you to get better.”
“What if I don’t? What if I like being this way? What if I enjoy slicing myself open every night?”
“Mikey! You told me you stopped.”
“No. You asked me and I didn’t say anything. You just shoved words in my mouth.”
“Mikey, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Gerard, but I’m done with this. It’s just too fucking hard.”
“You can’t give up, Mikey. You’re fifteen; I won’t let you give up.”
No matter how much I begged and pleaded for him to tell Mom or Dad or go to a doctor, he just wouldn’t. No matter how hard I cried and sobbed over the state he was working himself into, he never once told me that he’d get help. It got to the point where I could barely talk to him without us exploding in each other’s faces. It wasn’t his fault, though. It was the world’s for being too big and ugly for his fragile mentality. He never was a bad kid, just a little lost amidst all of the teasing and beating and bullying. That’s who I blame; the bullies. They crushed his spirit along with a few of his bones and opened the door for depression. He never meant to shout or swear or lose it with me, just like I never did him, but there’s only so much a kid can take.
Constant tormenting, non-existent self-esteem and depression?
No kid can take that. No kid should have to.
”Gee?”
“Yeah, Mikes?”
“Make it stop. Please. Just make it go away.”
“Oh, Mikey. C’mere, Kiddo.”
“I’m sorry that I shout at you all the time. I don’t mean to be an ungrateful little shit. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re a good kid, Mikes. And I love you, Bro.”
“Gee, I’m scared.”
“What of, Mikes? What’ scaring you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It’s made you cry, Mikey. Of course it fucking matters!”
“Please. Please don’t shout at me. Please.”
“Sorry, Kiddo. I didn’t mean to. But you gotta tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t want to die, Gee. I’m scared!”
“You’re not gonna die anytime soon, Mikes. Why d’you think that?”
“Because it’s too hard.”
“Mikey…”
I can still recall every aspect of the time we last spoke. Those precious moments where he gave me one final chance to help him and I did nothing other than hold him as he cried himself to sleep in my arms like he did so often when he was a toddler. Fifteen and already hopeless, so willing to give up.
Fifteen and already dead. Not just inside. Not anymore. My poor baby brother with nowhere to run to when the bullies ran at him. No. Not bullies.
Murderers.
They killed my little brother. My best friend.
I miss him. So fucking much.
I’m sorry, Gerard. It’s just too hard.
Now I think I understand how he gave up.
It really is just too fucking hard.
A/N: I don’t really like this, I think it’s kinda dull/clichéd, so sorry about that. But thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
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