self medi(a)cation

help |hɛlp|
verb [ with obj. ]
make it easier or possible for (someone) to do something by offering them one’s services or resources

To whomsoever it may concern,

Growing up, I drew out my silver linings from off-white pages and the silver screen’s safe cocoon.

And I’m sure a part of you did too, regardless of whether or not you spent your time as a kid running around playing with friends all the time, or being holed up in their zone with a book or a movie. The degree of influence must’ve varied, obviously, if you’ve made it this far I’m sure none of the Superman movies drove you into checking for flight powers by flinging yourself off the balcony.

I, myself, have made it this far owing to the films about people wanting to fling themselves off the balcony.

There was the Breakfast Club in senior year, Silver Lining’s Playbook in the 11th grade, The Art of Getting By in the 10th, Perks of Being a Wallflower in the 9th grade, It’s Kind of a Funny Story in the 8th, and Charlie Bartlett in the 7th.

Nobody is going to validate your anxiety or your troubles getting out of bed and dressed for school as a kid. Nobody will take your panic attacks seriously, and everybody will tell you you’re too young to be feeling a certain way.

Except for these handful of people who your parents time and time again told you were fictional and belonged to a different country hence eventually proclaiming “beta unka culture alag hota hai”

One thing you’ll never be able to explain to the skeptic is that Craig Gilner taught you that it’s okay to come to terms with the fact that something’s wrong with you, and it’s totally okay.

Charlie and Sam and Patrick taught you the concept of being an introvert, and that it’s okay to let someone else’s death affect you as long as you’re up for making an effort to crawl out of that rut. It’s okay to trust someone much older to you ’cause the folks in your grade are imbeciles. It’s okay if your english teacher is your best friend.

George Zinavoy taught you that it’s possible to use something you’re pretty darn good at as escapism, and it’s okay if you don’t want to make an effort to make friends ’cause they will come along eventually.

Claire Standish confirmed the fact that it’s normal to have everything in the world sorted out and playing out smoothly but still be unhappy.

Charlie Bartlett taught you that while helping other people out, you could just end up helping yourself, and that you could find someone who is just as crazy as you are along the way.

Tiffany taught you that if obsessing over something helps you get shit done, you go for it.

All of these people repeatedly reinforced on thing every single time you decided to play the film they were in: it’s okay. It’s perfectly okay.

And it most definitely is.

Fiction was created for a pretty good reason and if it’s aiding someone in accepting or even identifying tiny issues with themselves, I don’t see why “beta unka culture alag hota hai” is even relevant.

Categorised under “adolescent movies” or “teen romances”, it breaks my heart to see these intricate works of gold go misunderstood by people who claim to understand us the most.

Films aside, how many times has John Green reduced you to tears when he reveals the fact that Alaska’s gone for good ’cause you realise you wished you were Alaska, and that realisation hits you like a blow in the gut?

And how many times have you shied away from professing your love for John Green or Louis Sachar or Meg Cabot or Jodi Picoult or Jacqueline Wilson just because popular opinion deems them unworthy?

What matters is, what should matter is, years down the line you grew up to be a relatively and respectably stable college student being able to implement things the way you want to.

So, that.

(R.I.P. Anton Yelchin, Charlie Bartlett saved my life)



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