8/11/09

"I think I'm a sex addict too," he sighed, barely audible through the phone.
"So that means you've had sex before?" I shot back, immediately doubting that he had. But then I stopped and thought during the long uncomfortable silence that followed.. Had he?
I shouldn't doubt it. After all the girls he'd dated, I'm sure that one of them gave it to him. But I hoped with all I could that I was wrong.
"Would you get mad at me if I have?" was his long awaited "answer."
"Have you?" I demanded, thought I already could tell.
"Yes," he whispered. I stopped talking then as I felt my heart pump painfully with anger.
He lied again! He fucking lied again! I should have never believed him to begin with!
"Are you mad now?"
A pause.
"I'm fine." I didn't want him to get in any more trouble tonight. The cops already came to his house once. If they came again, he'd be arrested.
I had to calm him down, and that meant shoving aside my anger. And besides. If I got him any more pissed off, he would either never speak to e again OR be arrested and not be able to speak to me again.
And I needed to know WHO THE HELL HE FUCKED and WHEN HE FUCKED HER.
No. Stop. Calm down and make sure Matt's okay so you can ask him about this later.
What kind of heartless bitch am it?! Don't you see that Matt need help?! Right now, I'm the only one that cares if he drink or smokes or has sex.
Images flashed though my mind, but I shoved them away.
I couldn't breathe with my face smashed into my bed, but still I couldn't feel that familiar and oh-so-comforting feeling of near suffocation. Matt spoke. Just said my name. Asking if I was still there with a single word.
What the hell, man. Stop. You're interrupting me.
"Cade?" he said again. I pulled my head up and gasped as quietly as I could so he wouldn't hear and ask what I was doing.
"What." I tried my hardest not to snap at him.
What are you doing?! Snap at the stupid kid! He's a FUCKING LIAR!
I pushed that voice aside and answered him. I lied back and told him I wasn't mad. I told him I was fine.
"When was this?"
It wasn't only once. He's had sex more than once, sometimes even after he met me.
More images. I didn't shove against them as hard this time. I didn't have the energy. A feeling of anxiety that I'd been fighting back lingered.
"It's just sex," he said defensively, "Seriously."
Just sex, MY ASS!
I stayed silent. Smashing my face into my bed again. Maybe this time I'd achieve the feeling of suffocation I'd been looking for.
"Everyone's gonna have sex sometime in their life."
SO EARLY?!
"Sorry I didn't wait." Another half-ass, exasperated apology that he didn't mean.
-Don't apologize to me, you sick bastard! I don't want you to apologize for anything but lying to me! Tell your next stupid, naive girlfriend that you're fucking sorry you didn't wait!-
I pulled my face out of my comforter before I was ready. He interrupted me again.
No. I'M NOT MAD.
YES YOU FUCKING ARE, NOW DON'T TRY TO HIDE IT!
I pushed the voice aside.
No, I'm not mad.
"I have to call my sister to see if she found me a place to stay," he sighed, "I can't stay here tonight; I'm too pissed off at my mom."
We got off the phone, and I smashed my face into my bed again as I thought.
What was I supposed to do?! Matt needed my help, but I was fighting back my own emotions only to have him push me away.
I remember being torn between going off on him and not wanting to lose him. Again.
Images behind my eyes that I barely could fight off.
My lungs screamed for air, my heart screamed for relief, and my soul just screamed.
I drowned out the sound with music.
Sitting on my bed, against the headboard, I pulled my knees against my chest. Hiding my face. I just sat there int he fetal position for minutes, hyperventilating and crying tearlessly as I thought.
Images, sounds, feelings, images. All of him with some girl up in Washington.
His dad obviously didn't care, or his mom, or his sister, his friends, his other girls.
They just wanted him to choose them next.
-Imagine what they told their friends about it at school the next day.-
I wasn't fighting back the images anymore.
A bed with white sheets. He was on her, she was gasping, moaning.
Stop thinking about this! Please stop thinking about this!
But I couldn't stop.
My arms and legs were wrapped so tightly to me it hurt. But still, I pulled my arms tighter.
"I'm a guy, what do you expect? For me to just not have sex?"
That's what he'd said on the phone. Was his voice getting quieter, or was I subconsciously blocking out sounds?
YES I DO EXPECT YOU TO NOT HAVE SEX! IT DOESN'T MATTER IF YOU'RE A GUY!
Then I realized how much he'd touched me over the months.
And I felt sick.
I gasped and jerked backwards, smashing myself up against my headboard and my wall and pulling my legs and arms impossibly closer.
I kept on hyperventilating.
Think of everything that'd happened on this very bed I was sitting on now.
Images of him on me, trying to press himself closer than he already was..
I jumped up off my bed. It was no longer safe.
Think of all the things running through his mind every time we kissed.
I couldn't stay standing. I had to get back down into the fetal position. That tight little ball that no one could pull me out of. Where there was no way I could be touched.
So I sat in the corner of my room, thought of safety pins running through my mind. Thoughts of cuts and blood and safety pins safety pins safety pins.
My wrist ached and begged.
No. I promised Leah I wouldn't.
What she doesn't know won't hurt her, my arms was pleading.
"I know," I whispered aloud, kissing my wrist over and over to try and calm it, "I know.... but I can't."
Stop! I begged myself, Stop. Just stop, please.
I stared at the safety pin, opened up in my hand.
I stared at my wrist then too, thankful that I was wearing gloves.
Keep your gloves on, I told myself.
The images came back, and I shuddered, crossing my ankles and tightening my muscles.
Nothing will pull me out of this.
It's okay, I tried pleading with myself, It's okay, just stop. You're okay.
The images and sounds in my head drowned out my voice.
I turned my head, staring at the ground, my eyes darting nervously around my room while I hyperventilated. I froze, all but my breathing, when my eyes spotted something.
Laying on the ground next to me was my pair of scissors. I stared at them, more thoughts of blood, cuts, and more blood flashing through my mind.
But I had a promise to keep-- to so many people!What they don't know won't hurt them.
I cautiously unwrapped my arms as if I might fall apart if I did and snatched the scissors up.
I could cut my legs. No one would see the cuts through my jeans.
But I have a promise to keep!
WHAT THEY DON'T KNOW WON'T HURT THEM!
I threw the scissors down and whispered lyrics to myself. For once, that didn't help.
I froze when I thought of something.
We'd kissed. We'd made out.
Where else has he put his mouth?
I picked the scissors up again, opening them and pressing them against my leg.
STOP!
I dropped the scissors, but everything was still to much to take.
I dug my nails into my shoulder and dragged them down my arms, across and up my legs, then down my neck and my face.
I sat there and clawed at my skin as if tearing it off would somehow make me clean again,leaving bright red marks everywhere along my body.
I didn't curl up into a ball then. I sat and stared i horror at my skin, glowing red, and couldn't believe that I'd done it to myself.
I don't care, I thought, I don't care anymore.
I grabbed the scissors and pressed them against the inside of my left knee.
It stung and that was big enough to keep my mind off of everything that was happening.
I put three scratches into my knee before I finally forced myself to put the scissors and safety pin and tweezers down.
I stood, images still flashing and took a deep breath. I'd try to lay down and get some rest.
Even if a part of me still worried about Matt.
I turned off my light and lowered myself onto my bed. On contact though, image of him and I flashed in my head.
I jumped up and turned on my light, then went back into my corner and put 5 more scratches into my leg.
One for every time that night he asked me to send him a "sexy picture" on my phone.
"You don't need drugs or alcohol or sex to relieve stress," I had told him.
I left out cutting. That night, I needed to be able to cut.
There are 8 right lines across and up my leg now, and four scratch marks that still haven't faded yet.
Had I not been to exhausted from it all, the worry I still felt for Matt despite everything would have kept me awake.
But the last thing I remember thinking before I fell asleep was,
"I should have pushed the scissors deeper."