Disordered.
I utter a gasp and my breath catches in my throat, stopping the sobs. Thick red blood blossoms, making it hard to tell where the slit in my arm actually is. It's warm and sticky, slowly heading down towards my forearm. I drop the razorblade and inhale until my lungs can't hold anymore. The exhale is a mix between laughing and crying. Endorphins flood my brain and bring the relief I knew would come.
For a moment I wonder if I will ever be able to put an end to what can lightly be called my "bad habit," but drop the thought and focus again on my newest wound and the blood condensing around it. It's currently the lowest prong in a ladder of scars branding my upper left arm. Each little, pink, raised section of flesh has a story to tell that could fill every page of the book you're reading if I had such a desire to elaborate, but I don't.
Before any blood reaches my fingertips, I grab the towel sitting on my desk, placed especially there for this purpose, and wipe all the way up my arm. Damnit, I think to myself, wishing I'd gotten the towel wet. Stupid girl, you should be used to this by now.
*** *** ***
First, let's get one thing straight: I have never tried to kill myself. That doesn't mean I haven't thought about it or wanted to, but the cutting isn't me attempting suicide. If it was, then the cuts would run long, down my whole arm, through the vein, and they're not anywhere close to that. Cutting is just the best form of therapy I've ever had [and I'm actually allowed to say that, because I've seen counselors/therapists since I was seven years old.. but we'll get to that later].
People can't seem to process that information when I explain it to them though, which is why I'm sitting here in my school counselor's office, staring down at the purple and blue checked carpet under my shoes.
"Rose," she's looking at me like a stranger. Like she hasn't been my high school counselor for the past three years. Like everyday, my route through the school isn't determined by the schedule her and I sat and discussed. "Why would you do this to yourself?"
I'd made the immense mistake of wearing short sleeves today. My scars used to be high up enough on my arm that I still could. But now the latter is longer and less easily hidden. Someone had noticed the inflamed section of skin, colored reddish brown by the dried blood, which formed yet another scab, holding me together.
Instead of answering her question, I twirled a piece of my long, black hair through my fingers, and continued looking at those purple and blue squares. If I look for long enough, my eyes slide in and out of focus without any effort.
"You do realize that you could be sent away for this, don't you? People who attempt suicide need mental rehabilitation."
"I didn't try to kill myself, okay?" my voice is stronger than I expected it to be. "Why the hell would I cut right there if I wanted to die?"
The question caught her off guard. Her pretty, bright green eyes dug into mine, searching for an answer. I bet when she lets her naturally red hair hang down to her shoulders instead of pinning it up in a bun like it is now, she's actually very beaufitul. Her jawline is strong and defined, not like mine; and her skin is fair with little freckles sprinkled in all the right places. I bet she's never looked in the mirror and hated what she saw. I bet she's got a perfect husband and they have perfect children and her perfect parents couldn't be happier with them.
"Well then, why did you do it?"
*** *** ***
After school, I walked alongside my best friend, Emma, towards the park where we were meeting up with Kyle and Dean, who completed our little core. Although I was a bit of a short kid myself, standing at only 5'3, I still had a few inches on Emma. Her short, punky hair, which almost changed as often as the mood ring on her finger, was bright pink today.
"I have something to tell you," she said. It scared me a little to hear her say that, because she was being so serious. We'd only been friends for a little over a year, but I'd learned it was rare to hear her say something that wasn't followed by a laugh. "I'm pregnant."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"What?" was she kidding? Sometimes it was hard to tell. "You're sure? Like, you took a test and everything? Because being late doesn't necessarily mean you're preggers, you know."
"I took three tests, actually. And yeah, they're all positive." her expression was hard to read. I couldn't decide whether I was supposed to be happy or sad for her. Unexpectidely, and I have no idea where this came from, I felt a little twinge of jealousy. I'd been saying it for years: I never want to give birth. Maybe I'd adopt someday, but even that wasn't a sure thing. Thinking about life with a kid just seems too complicated. Too stressful. To expensive. I always feel like a real jerk when I think about that though.
So where was this jealousy coming from?
"What does Matt think?" I asked her, imagining the look on her boyfriend's face when he found out.
"I haven't told him yet."
Before I can say anything else, we reach the park and see Kyle and Dean running towards us. Emma gives me a look that plainly says "change the subject."
"Rose!!!" Kyle, who was a 5'4 compact ball of muscle and crazy energy, practically knocked me over with a running-hug, something I had grown very used to. We squeezed tight onto each other and spun around in circles until we were dizzy and almost falling. Kyle and I go way back to fourth grade. He was one of the only guys in my life that never screwed me over. We were as close as you could be without dating or being related, and I can say without a doubt in my mind that I have never been angry with him before.
Dean was a newer friend of mine, and I was usually slow to warm up to people. He, himself, was rather reserved and more on the quiet, tame side, so a simple wave was our greeting.
Emma, Dean, Kyle, and I were like four separate parts that fit together perfectly like puzzle pieces.
"So, what do you guys want to do?" Dean asked, tucking his hands into the oversized pockets of his trademark tan jacket, which usually held a Nintendo DS, a cell phone, various snacks, hair ties [he had longer hair than any girl I knew], and other random items, depending on the day. "We could just hang out here at the park," he said, gazing back at the swings. This was one of the reasons I really loved these guys; we could be kids around each other. Here we were, all seniors in high school, and we weren't afraid to admit we still loved getting on a swing set once in a while. "Or we could go to my house and play video games."
Half an hour later, the four of us were sitting across from Dean's big screen TV playing old school Nintendo games. I was having fun until someone put a frozen pizza in the oven and the smell began wafting through the house. My stomach growled, but the TV was up loud enough that luckily, nobody knew it happened but me. Anxiety crept through me like poison and I knew I had to leave. I was two days and six hours into a fast that I absolutely could NOT end with a pizza binge.
After making up some lame story about having a stomach ache and being tired, I told everyone good-bye and started walking home, just as they were taking the pizza out.
*** *** ***
My skin tingled and waves of chills overwhelmed my body. The hot water from the shower was a shock to my constantly chilled skin, but it felt amazing. I could feel the blood rushing to my toes and fingertips, which actually made me slightly dizzy and caused me to see stars for a moment. Nothing out of the ordinary. A few things happen when you stop eating:
1. You get cold. All the time.
2. You get tired. All the time.
3. You get dizzy and have those moments where if you stand up too fast, your vision may cloud over for a few seconds.
4. You get depressed, which hopefully passes after awhile.
5. Your metabolism basically commits suicide for a few days, then kicks back in and starts eating all of the extra "fuel" you have stored up in your body, resulting in weight loss. Which is what's supposed to make it all worth while.
I stepped out of the shower and wrapped my hair up in my towel. My blurred reflection stared back at me. This was how I liked to look at myself: when the mirror was covered in condensation so thick, I could bypass most of my flaws. There was still no hiding the wideness of my torso or the flabby skin covering my thick arms and legs, but at least now I didn't have to see my stretch marks or any other similar imperfection.
The newest cut on my left arm was still a scab, promising a purple scar which would eventually fade to pink, and even later down the road, take the form of just a thick gathering of natural-colored skin.
Ever since the school counselor called my parents a week ago and told them about my "bad habit," they've been checking me for new cuts, bruises, burns, and basically anything that could be self-inflicted. That first night was not an enjoyable one. The worst thing a parent can do is make it about them. Mom was angry and yelled quite a bit before showing my father, expecting the same reaction from him. But she didn't get it. Dad's was worse. It's like I could physically see his heart breaking from the look on his face. He said nothing, but instead, walked out of the house without a word. I heard his truck start up and watched as the lights traveled out of the driveway and down the street.
My father was covered in tattoos, and we'd discussed before about the way it makes you feel when you get one. The reason tattoos are "addictive" all stems from the fact that your brain floods with endorphins [which is the same reason I hurt myself] when you get one. A simple needle, puncturing your skin over and over again, provides so much relief. Paints such a pretty picture.
He returned maybe five minutes later with bandages and some antiseptic cream to rub on both the new and old cuts, which would hopefully cause the scars to fade. The whole time he applied the bandages over the clear, sticky paste, he didn't say anything at all, but I knew he understood.
*** *** ***
Around an hour later, I was in my PJ's and sitting down on the queen-sized matress in my room, which was just that on the floor: no bed frame or anything. My alarm clock read 1am, and I knew I would hate myself in the morning when I had to get up for school. Instead of wrapping myself up in my fantastically warm comfortor and taking my normal sleeping shape, which resembled the fetal position, I reached for my laptop and turned it on.
I had three new messages. One was from Emma, which read:
"Hey, I told Matt I was prego, and he's actually happy! He asked me to do something for him, and I hope you don't think I'm insane for saying "yes", but ...Rose, I'm going to marry him. "
My wide, brown eyes stared back at the screen like a deer in headlights. Emma and I were the same tender age of seventeen, and I couldn't believe how different two lives could be. Here I was, single for the second year running, and here was Emma, engaged and expecting. I replied telling her how thrilled I was to hear the news, and told her I'd help her out with anything she needed, anytime. Which really did come from my heart. I loved that girl so much, and I would do anything for her.
The second message was from a boy. My stomach fluttered a little bit when I saw that it was from him. Logan and I had known each other since Junior High, and we'd crushed on each other ever since that first "hello." Although we'd never officially dated, we had made out a few times, and gone a little further than that, but never all the way. Something was always stopping us from fulling being in a relationship, like the fact that he had a crazy ex-girlfriend who was still convinced they were together and threatened anyone showing any interest.
The message said, "hey babe, you should come to this concert on saturday. i hate not seeing you at school and i miss you like crazy, so i hope you can make it."
A large, dark colored flyer covered most of my screen. The headlining band, called Tempest, was a metal band that I'd seen in concert quite a few times at tiny little clubs designed to hold somewhere around fifty people. I honestly wasn't that into any of the bands; my main movitvation behind going was seeing Logan, which I planned to do this Saturday.
*** *** ***
I blacked out for the first time the day before that concert. The fact that I hadn't eaten or drank anything other than water in over two days probably had something to do with it. I remember the blaring sound of my alarm clock and having to pee really badly; without thinking, I stood up too quickly.
Waking up in the middle of your bedroom floor covered in urine and running two hours late for school isn't the best beginning to a day.
Luckily, my parents left for work long before I walked to school, so they had no idea whether I actually went or not. When I found it difficult to stand up in the shower, I decided against going to school and facing all the stress. So many artificial, bright lights. So many flights of crowded stairs, leading to so many crowded hallways, all crammed with so many of your typical self-absorbed teenagers, not caring how many people they had to shove out of the way to reach their destination.
After a very exhausting shower, I came to the conclusion that I had to eat something if I wanted to have any energy at the concert tomorrow. For now, I grabbed an apple and a box of raisins. I knew I had to start out slowly because my starved body would immediately store everything I put into it at first. The rest of the day was sleep-filled. When my mom came into my room later that evening to ask why I'd been sleeping ever since she got home from work, I invented some BS lie about not feeling well. She believed me, offered to run out and get me medicine, soup, anything I wanted; and I hated myself for lying to her because I knew she was concerned.
*** *** ***
Saturday morning brought with it a mixture of rain and snow, which could only be expected during the month of February when you lived in Indiana. I woke up early so I could prepare all day for the concert later that night.
The first thing I did was dye and cut my hair. It started out all one length, black, and reaching just below my boobs.
