I've Learned to Play on the Safe Side

[One Year Later]

The teacher's voice was like an annoying fly's buzz- registered in the part of my brain I never checked for updates. She was talking about something to do with the Python, or maybe the Pythagoron, Theory. Or something like that. Something that had to do with whatever we'd learned the week before, which I had also stored in that unreachable part of my brain. Oh, wait, now she had moved onto a different topic. Something that sounded suspiciously like-

Oh, fuck, I thought for the hundredth time that week, as my math teacher gave me the same lecture she had given me every day- something about the value of the Pythagoron Theory later in life and how if I didn't learn attention-paying skills now, I never would. I slouched farther down in my seat, pulled my hood lower over my eyes, began doodling on the desk, turned up the volume on my iPod, and didn't even bother to pretend I was listening. Without even looking, I knew everyone in the room was exchanging glances with one another. "What a loser. The girl who cuts her wrists just for attention." This time, what they said was at least half-true.

I knew they had reason to talk. I couldn't hide the scars all up my forearm forever. And I had barely spoken I word since the school year had started. I made no attempt to interact with any of my other classmates. Instead, I preferred to try to make myself as invisible as possible, building barriers surrounding me that no one could penetrate, living through life at school in a kind of haze. I walked through the halls- and through pretty much my entire life- with my headphones on and letting the music wash over me like a wave.

My invisibility tactics didn't seem to work, however, because almost everyone knew my name. Although I didn't care as much I had last year. My mind was too preoccupied with other thoughts. Suddenly, taunts at school didn't seem so important.

Yes, I did cut myself. The pain I felt had spread itself to every fiber in my body, and was a constant, numbing throb, like a heavy weight spread evenly over my entire skin that I couldn't shake off. When the blade- the sharp, silver blade that let me know I had the power to let my body know how much I could hurt it- cut my skin, I would always gasp, and then grimace in pleasure. It felt good to be able to concentrate the numbing pain into one spot on my body, and I liked knowing that I had complete control over that. Bright red blood would seep out of the fresh cut on my arm, like a part of me was escaping- being set free and for a moment, the throbbing pain became less as the pain of what I imagined was my slow journey to complete freedom dominated.

Countless times, I had savored the idea of what it would be like to just give up completely- to refuse to carry on, to end the pain, and to disappear from a world where no one would miss me. The idea too often gave me the wild kind of pleasure that I almost nothing else could give me. I believe it was the existence of three people- three people I reminded myself would miss me whenever I had these thoughts- that saved my life. These people were Alex, my sister, and my therapist.

Alex was my best friend. He called me every night, and we talked on the phone for at least an hour. Alex sympathized with me. He understood my feelings when no one else could, and he knew when to shut up, and when the occasion called for a joke. Alex's sense of humor and the quality he still retained that let the world know he didn't care what they thought lit up my evenings. I knew he was just as close to Jake as to me, but that didn't bother me. Occasionally, we would have three-way conversations. The awkwardness was at a minimum, but unconciously, neither Jake nor I would speak to each other, only to Alex.

My parents had taken away my phone and the computer in my room, but they couldn't cut me off completely. Every night my sister wasn't hanging out with her group of friends, I would sneak into her room, locking my door so my parents would think I was in there, and locking my sister's door so they couldn't come in. Alex called me on my sister's phone, and I spent endless hours every evening blogging on her computer. She never complained.

Jamie was thirteen. She was almost my exact clone, but only I knew that. To the rest of the world, she was Jamie Sandbrook, the most popular girl at PS34, the local middle school, and a shoo-in for every honors society the high school offered. I looked almost sadly at the black hoodie with pink skulls she was wearing- that she always wore when we were alone in her room. She had splurged on it on one of the countless shopping sprees her and my mom went on- the ones that had produced the endless wardrobe of jean skirts, polo shirts, and pink headbands- but the look my mom had given her when she saw her purchase had caused her to stow it in the back of her closet and only wear it when no one but me was looking. I almost wished Jamie would resist the pressure that blanketed our home and was suffocating its occupants, but if she did, she would probably end up a mess like me. The evenings Jamie and I spent together sometimes made me feel close to normal again. When I wasn't talking on the phone to Alex or blogging, she and I would talk about music, about which band members were hot and which ones creeped the hell out of us, about life, about the problems Jamie had at school, and about my problems [usually accompanied by tears from my part]. Jamie knew almost everything. She, like the rest of the world, obviously knew I cut myself, but she, unlike the rest of the world, didn't look down on me because of it. She didn't know how often I comtemplated suicide, however. I had told her about comtemplating drugs, though. And about how, after being tempted time after time, I had finally told myself drugs weren't an option. How I had forced myself to look at the person I had been before The Incident, and forced myself to accept how disgusted that person would have been if she had been able to hear my thoughts now. Jamie also knew how strong my feelings for Jake had been, and how strong they still were. But another of the few secrets between us was what Jake had been forced to do that night. I had tried many times to tell her, but I had never been able to.

My parents barely spoke to me. I knew my dad had stopped kidding himself I was making everything up, but he was too proud to admit it, and instead reverted to glaring at me and keeping his mouth shut. The only times I ever really interacted with them was during our murderous screaming matches over anything and everything- especially the fact that my mom would let me go nowhere, aside from school, alone, terrified something would happen to me.

A couple weeks after The Incident, my mom had surprised me by going against my dad's strong wishes and paying for a shrink for me, who I went to three afternoons a week right after school. I liked having someone I could tell all my problems to- someone who was trained in how to listen and how to help me cope. Better yet, part of the therapist's contract was that everything communication we had was kept strictly between us, unless I said otherwise.

With my therapist's help, I was gradually getting over my fear of being touched. I had never been the warm-and-fuzzy-cuddly type, but I didn't shrink back anymore whenever somebody patted me on the back or gave me a high-five. [This principle, however, didn't apply to my parents. I refused to let them lay so much as a finger on me- perhaps just out of pure spite.] I listened when she talked about how I would soon learn to think of the boys in the alley as humans and become less afraid of them. She talked about how they were kids just as lonely as me, and with just as much pent-up anger, with the need to lash it out on someone. I accepted her explanations, but they never took away the fear that would clutch me at night.

Another problem she was being paid to deal with was my anorexia. I was fifteen years old; five feet, two inches; and ninety-three pounds. I hardly ever ate at home. Only when I knew my parents weren't looking would I creep downstairs, steal a granola bar or a carton of yogurt, and take it up to my room. My weight was one of the few things, like the pain that I could cause with the slice of a razor, that I had complete control over in my life. I relished that. I relished being able to force my body to become what I decided I wanted it to be.

The bell rang. The teacher called me to her desk. I took my time getting there. I had no reason to hurry. It's not like I cared if I was late to my next class. I think the teacher had stopped caring, too.

I had detention that afternoon which I was fully expecting. I had had detention yesterday afternoon too, and the afternoon before. Not like I ever went.

That night, on the phone with Alex, I asked him something that had been bothering me since I had met Jake.

"Alex?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Do you remember when we first met? In that cafe?"

I knew Alex was grinning. "The first time I ever laid eyes on you, m'dear? How could I forget?"

I smiled, too. "Yeah, well, remember when I asked Jake why he had sat down next to me? And he said it was because I reminded him of himself, being all depressed and everything?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, um, I was thinking... you know... I mean, you know why he was depressed, right?"

Alex sighed. "Look, Ashlee, if he didn't tell you..."

I was starting to get a little ticked off. "Of course he didn't tell me, Alex; that's why I'm asking you. Unless you think I don't have a right to know."

Alex let out another, longer sigh. "OK, OK. Except don't let him know I told you, OK?"

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Whatever."

"Jake's dad was in the army. He got blown up by a car bomb about a year before we met you." He paused. "He and Jake were really close. Besides me, I think he was Jake's best friend. They talked about everything- music, girls. Jake got... well, honestly, I didn't think he was gonna come through after he heard the news. I got really scared. He kind of hid himself away and wouldn't tell anyone about his feelings. I felt like he was going to drown himself... not literally, but... well, you probably know what I mean. He changed. It was like he walked around in this jet-black bubble. He was living in a scary world."

I didn't know what to say. "Wow. W-wow."

"Yeah... Listen, Ashlee, Jake obviously didn't want you to know all that. It's amazing he finally put it behind him and if you mention it, I don't know... he might..."

"Yeah, yeah, OK."

"Thanks a lot, Ashlee. Look, um, my mom's calling me. So I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"'Kay. Oh, yeah, bye."

"Bye."

I hung up. If I had been any sort of decent person, I would have felt terrible for Jake. If I had had any sort of sensitivity whatsoever, I would have started crying and the pain I felt for Jake would have washed away all my hostile feelings towards him. I would have felt so sorry and ignorant. But instead I felt... angry?