Pain Is Where the Heart Is

With my dad, I experienced the same pure, beautiful bliss that I had as a child. I hadn't been that happy in so long. For the two weeks before my 7th grade year started, I forgot about everything but family. My friends knew that I wasn't moving with my mom, but I didn't see them until school started.

I can remember what I wore that first day: My new black skinny jeans, a My Chemical Romance t-shirt, and a clean new pair of Converse.

I got to school and looked for my friends. In that two weeks, it seemed like I had become the definition of 'uncool.' When I looked at the class list, my heart sunk further. My two best friends, Allie and Amber, were in the other class. I was stuck with Brandi and Kaitlyn. At the time, both of them annoyed me beyond belief. I felt cheated out of my friendships, but you'd never have known. I plastered on the fake smile that became very familiar to me that year.

That year, I realized how crucial the Internet was in my friendships. Without it, I was left in the dust. I didn't know any of the new Panic! At The Disco songs and I never got to talk to any of them outside of school.

The only thing my body could tell me to do was to hide. And that's what I did. Every emotion was carefully hidden in an emotionless mask. Everything passed as a blur around me. It didn't hurt so much when my friends talked about partied they had over the weekend or what YouTube videos were cool.

I was just mending my heart. That's what I told myself. One day I could take off the mask and I could laugh again. Laugh with my friends, with my dad.

In this time, I'd become increasingly distanced from everything. I only payed attention to the work we were doing in class. Once I got home, I did my homework and then read for the rest of the night. I cranked the volume up on my iPod and immersed myself in the fantasy worlds the books carried me off to.

In this time, I began to believe that my dad didn't love me. He loved the little girl I used to be. It seemed to me that because he missed out on three years of my life, he had to treat me like I was still 9 years old. I was twelve. I shouldn't have been thinking those things, but I was.

I also began to think about the painful memories of my past. I thought a lot about the day that happened just a few days after one of my birthday. My dad, brother, and I had just finished playing kickball and were laying in the large, grassy field next to my grandma's house where my dad was living at the time. As we were examining the clouds, a police car pulled into the driveway. My dad jumped up and led us into the house. The policeman followed us. He said that he was taking my dad into custody. When I looked out the window, my mom was there waiting. My dad kept breaking loose from his grasp and coming over to us and hugging us. I was terrified, I was crying.

My dad was telling me to take my guitar and amp home that I got for my birthday. My grandma was sobbing and yelling at the policeman. I watched my dad get arrested before my eyes, I watched my grandma suffer the first of her many stress induced heart attacks. My dad wasn't even guilty, that was proven by the courts.

I also thought alot about my mom. I wondered if my life would have been any better in Texas. It occured to me one day that if I'd moved with her, I would be thinking about how my life would've been better in Michigan. I also knew that if I had to move to Texas, I was planning on committing suicide on my thirteenth birthday.

I wrote something about suicide in a blog on Bebo. My mom happened to read that when I lived with her. She threatened me with mental hospitals, something I was extremely afraid of since Amber was turned in for cutting. So when my dad asked me what was wrong and why I wasn't happy, I wouldn't tell him. When my friends asked me if I was okay, I would lie.

About this time, I was toying with the idea of suicide more and more. I wrote down all the many ways to do it, the pain level, and the probability of if it would work and if I could get the supplies. From drowning myself to shooting myself, very few things could be swiftly and easily pulled off.

__________

One day, I decided to take off that mask and live a day with my heart exposed. Little did anyone know, but I was placing myself in their hands. My life. So on that day, not a single person treated me any differently. I came to school with high hopes that there would be a noticeable change in the way we were. And of course, there wasn't. My friends still talked about their new bands. My heart sunk and the still-mending hole in my chest was broken open and grew larger and larger. I was losing myself and my mind.

Later that day, my dad and I had an argument over something. I don't remember what it was about, but I can remember my eyes stinging with tears as I watched my dad turn his back on me and focus on whatever he was doing on the computer. I closed my book, turned off my iPod, and stood up slowly and carefully. I walked like a zombie to the bathroom.

There were no razor blades at hand, but there was a pair of scissors. I sat down on the carpet and pulled off my sweatshirt. I opened the scissors and pressed the sharp tip into my arm. This was my first serious attempt at self-harm. I dragged the blade across my skin. When I was finished, I gagged myself over the toilet. Nothing much came back up. I hadn't eaten for almost two days.

I got up, pulled my sweatshirt on, and picked out an outfit with long sleeves. I didn't want anyone to know.

The cut didn't even bleed. It just seemed to irritate the skin. It was red, like the blood was trying to spill over. My dissapointment was palpable.

That next day, I was washing my hands with Allie and Kaitlyn in woodshop. I forgot about what I did the night before until Allie grabbed my arm. She looked at me and shook her head. She told me we need to talk.

We got back to the table we were sitting at and her and Kaitlyn demanded an explanation. I came up with a lot of different stories that day, about how I fell with my pencil, about how my cat had scratched me. They called me on all of those, asking why I had a pencil sharp enough to break skin and how my cat could scratch me when he had been stolen months earlier.

So, eventually, I told them all. I told Allie, Kaitlyn, and Brandi and wrote a note to Amber who wasn't there that day. Brandi told a teacher of mine. I noticed her change in attitude toward me, how she would extend deadlines for me when I told her I had a headache the day before.

When I found out, I masked my burning rage with a smile. I told her it was okay even though she hadn't asked for consolement.

It's ironic. The first cut I ever made on myself was the only one that ever left a scar.