The Truth Behind Me.

It was a cold autumn day, and the weather was just right for the fog and rain we were getting in Jersey. I was wearing a thin army green spring jacket, and underneath it, a cream wool cardigan, and a Misfits t-shirt. I wore my black skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, and my black leather Doc. Martens as I waited for you to show up. The only thing keeping my hair the least bit under control was the beanie I was wearing. My bright blue hair stood out most of all to all the passerby's as I leaned against the graffitied wall of some old building that was long ago put out of commision. I was filled with anxiety as I awaited you to show up. I knew my chances were slim, but I still had some. After-all, you are the Frank Iero of My Chemical Romance, and many other bands. Ten minutes passed by, and the air grew colder, I could feel it seeping into my bones, and soon, my hands would be frozen. I pulled out my fingerless gloves and shoved them on, and just as I did so, I saw your figure emerge from across the lot. I small, shy smile danced on my lips, and played it's way into a grin. As you drew closer, I could see your features more clearly. Your slightly oval face, and your medium length black hair that seemed to hang and drip due to the rain and fog. Your pointy nose stuck out, and your piercing hazel eyes did in a mysterious way, but not that I would question. A smile spread across your face once you saw me, and it was the most beautiful smile I had seen yet. It was slightly crooked, but that's what made it all the better in my opinion. Your outfit was composed of worn out black converse, jeans, ripped at the knees, much like mine in fact, an Iron Maiden t-shirt, a dark green flannel, and a black hoodie. I couldn't imagine how you weren't freezing.

"Hey." You greeted me with a grin.

"Hey. I didn't think you'd show up." I mused, but in reality, it was true.

"Don't take me for granted, okay? Of course I came. I don't usually do this, but I made one exception, so far it's not a bad life choice." I laughed at his word choice, simply because, well, I wasn't just an ordinary fan. Sure, I loved his work whether it be when My Chemical Romance was together, or not, but it didn't mean I didn't want a normal conversation with him. He was truly one of my heroes.

"No, don't worry. I won't. Don't be so afraid though." I chuckle, knowing I had a small panic attack beginning to form. I wasn't used to talking to people, no matter how much I knew them, this wasn't going to change in the least bit. Frank let's out a short giggle, and proceeds to pull out a package of cancer sticks. I wasn't one to smoke, but he was, and it's not something I minded. He stuck it gently between his lips, and cupped it to be able to light it, and once he did, he drew in an elegant breath, then pulled the cancer away from his thin, chapped, pink lips, and blew out the smoke as if it was an art to be perfected, rather than something that slowly kills you.

"What did you want to talk about?" His inquiry is what really sets off the conversation.

"Frank, you've had a great deal of depression, correct?" I begin, earning a small nod from him. The look on his face tells me he's listening intently to my careful word choice. "I'm sorry that this is so morbid all of a sudden, " I laugh out, but it sounds so fake. So unrealistic. "Well, it's all I feel of late. Just this feeling of being drowned, and not being able to get out of it. It- To quote the song Sleep- feels as if someone is gripping my throat and won't let go. My heart feels like it's made of lead, and my lungs feel heavy. Every breath I draw in is shallow, and it feels as if I can't get enough air into my lungs. Did you ever get that?" I end in a question.

"That's what it is." He takes another drag, this time, blowing the smoke out, and up towards the sky. "It's this chemical imbalance and it feels as if it affects the whole body, and in the worst cases, you lose your mind to it. It's not beautiful. It's not some beautiful sad song about a broken heart, it's not about those movies where girls cry and have makeup down their face, or boys being called fags all the goddamn time and getting shoved in the halls. It's not like in the movies where the blade is tempting you from the other side of the room, and it's not a fucking metaphor. Depression isn't beautiful, it's destructive, horrifying, disgusting. It's not a bloody bathroom floor, or someone kissing the scars that litter your arms. It's a horror show that follows you everywhere you go. The best I can say is to do what you love, and be who you are. It helps a whole lot. Create and destroy as you go along or as you please." He explains to me, to ensure I understand what exactly this is about. "Please tell me you're talking about this feeling, and not that of sadness. I mean, I'd love for you to say no, but if this is what you feel, then do tell."

"Frank, it's exactly how I feel, all the time, and the worst is it's not something that can be fixed by a simple 'Sit up straight.' because the weight of these emotions bends you out of shape. It's staying up until two in the morning, crying, hating yourself, and the state your room is in is horror. You can't bring yourself to clean it. You can't bring yourself to care. Not about grades, or life, or anything. It drives your attention away from everything around you." I watch him nearly finish with the cigarette, and blow out the second last puff of smoke, that's then broken up by the rain as it gets heavier, and louder. "I once read 'Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm' and I live by it now. It's made me a little better, but still hardly helps when it comes down to the heavier stuff. It's the worst though because it feels as if I'm a ghost. A living, breathing, talking, walking, ghost. Nothing helps, and I refuse to take medication. You remember what happened to Gerard." I mention.

"I know." His voice has a grim tone to it. "He's had to start taking it again, it's gotten bad, but this time he's keeping healthy, for his daughter, Bandit." He admits to me. "I'll tell you what, don't stop doing what you feel you're meant to do. Do it with your whole heart. Bring out your emotions through art and music. You won't be too pleased with your work, but hell, what does it matter if it's what you love. As a solo artist, I haven't written anything I'm proud of. Not yet, and that's okay, because I'm doing what I love. I think that's what you need to do. I know it's not easy, and can take years, but it'll be worth it." He moves closer to me, and moves the wet strand of hair, that's stuck to my cheek, out of the way. "And if you're in a toxic environment, get out when you can." I small smile places itself on my face. Frank knew what he was talking about. He knew it very well.

"Thank you. You don't understand how many people don't listen." I answer him. A soft chuckle tumbles out into the open air.

"I believe I do." Is all he answers before lighting another cancer stick. "Oh, sorry. Would you like one?" He asks me. I shake my head no.

"I'd like to get somewhere a little more dry, though." I add in and smile at Frank, the guitarist I've looked up to for a very long time. Most see him as a famous celebrity, I see him as normal person, who had his dream come true, and I was incredibly proud of him.

"Not a bad idea." The smile never leaves his face, as we scout for a drier place for us to sit and talk. Once we find a small cafe, not too well known, and not very populated, we both sit and order a black coffee, one each. The barista takes our order, and comes back no sooner than five minutes, smiling at us happily. The sound of rain hitting the window and the roof echoed through the small shop, and the smell of coffee filled our nostrils, and made it's way to our lungs. The chatter of strangers, who were unimportant filled the room, and slowly but surely, my minor panic attack began to escalate a little more, but not by much. "You okay?" Frank questions me. To be quite honest the situation seems so ersatz to me, but was hoping it wasn't.

"Yeah, I'm fine... It's just the people, you know?" I ask him.

"I've never been one for public places either, but you get used to it after meeting so many when touring. At least I'm not required to love all of them just because they support me you know? Some of them are a real pain." I nod in understanding. Just because someone loves you, doesn't mean you have to love them back. Some people are rude, or they're just very narrow minded.

"Hey, one more thing." I start.

"Anything, fire away." Frank beams at me.

"Don't think I'm crazy, but... I'm hearing voices again, tied in with depression, seeing things. Horrific monsters, all conjured from my head, and dear god I need help, but I don't want to be sent to a mental asylum." I choke out.

"Take a deep breath." His sweet voice instructs. In a way, it's calming. "Now, it's okay, it's going to be okay." I nod. "You draw right?" I small nod is earned from me. "Then draw, when you feel like shit, and like you're about to give up, draw. Put as much detail into it as possible. Art is the weapon against society, and creativity and imagination are your ammunition." I take his advice. "And please, don't hurt yourself over this, because for a temporary pain, you don't want a solution that will scar you, and I swear, if you're thinking of suicide, don't because why make a permanent solution that will hurt everyone around you, over something that will only cause you pain that you' grow from." A tear fell from my eye and slid down my cheek, turning from hot, to cold in a second. "Don't you dare, and if you need to talk to someone, do because it'll mean the world, to them, to mean, and in the future, to you too." He finishes calmly.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, to sit down with you and talk about something. Since I was young, I've set this goal to be as great a guitarist as you and I won't give up. I've set this goal because you've saved me. My Chem has saved me, and you continue to aid in the diminishing of my depression every day."

Notes