The Avoidance
Chapter 1
I woke up on a beautiful sunny morning in February, the birds outside were chirping. It was my first day at High School. I got up out of bed and into my school uniform. I did my long sandy blonde hair in a nice neat pony tail. My backpack nearly bigger than me, Mum called me down stairs for breakfast. I think Mum was more excited than I was about going to High School.
I was a pretty average girl, I did not have the looks, and I was looked at as sort of a 'nerd'. From the age of six I had learnt that I wasn’t like the other kids, I always felt different, an outcast. I approached my mother a few months ago and asked
“Why Mummy?, Why? Why am I so different?”
“Darling, I was waiting for you to be old enough to understand... you have what they call, Aspergers Syndrome which is a social impairment ...”
A tear came rolling down my cheek.
“Does that mean I can’t have any friends?”
“No Darling, you’ll just find making friends hard...”
Dealing with this hasn’t been easy, it never will be, but what else can I do?
I had only one close friend in Primary School, his name was Johnny, but Johnny went to a different High School to me. I thought that by the time I went to High School I would have some more friends but I didn't.
Mum drove me to school on my first day, it was quite scary walking into High School by myself, not knowing anyone, and having to sit by myself, painstakingly waiting for the school bell to ring. I got weird looks from older students, I got taunts from the boys in my grade, and the girls pointed and laughed at me.
First period was a nightmare; I sat up the front of the classroom near the teacher’s desk. And for the whole forty minutes I had paper, and pens thrown at me, jokes, and taunts about me. By that stage I was well known by my whole grade, but not in a good way. 'The Nerd'; 'The fat chick'; 'Four eyes'; and worst of all 'Beach ball'. That was what got to me most, 'beach ball'.
This continued the whole day. Lunch and recess was worse because I sat by myself and I had no one to stand up for me. The boys stole my lunch money, ripped up my school books, smashed my phone on the concrete, and threw my lunch in the garbage. For the rest of the day I starved, I had no food, no money, no drink, and my stomach was starting to growl at me.
It was finally the afternoon and it was time for the bus trip home. I boarded the bus and sat up the front expecting not to be noticed and left alone. But that was certainly not the case. I had my school bag thrown back and forth from one side of the bus to the other several times. I held back my desperate cries and screams for help, because I knew if I cried out it would make matters worse. After 20 minutes I finally managed to get my school bag back. Although my school bag was thrown about so much throughout today, it held together quite nicely, surprising enough.
When I eventually arrived home, Mum asked me how my first day of High School was, I replied with the first thing that came to mind... "It was great, I made lots of friends. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow!" with a fake smile upon my face, I walked silently to my bedroom. Lying was my only way to avoid telling my mum. I did not know how to tell her, let alone know how she will respond. It was my greatest fear. Forcing fake smiles from then on was my only way to hide my true pain. A pain that I feared my mum would discover soon enough.
I wished sometimes I was just like everyone else, I wanted to be popular and hang out with the cool people, and was able to catch a ball without dropping it. I just wanted to fit in with everyone else. If I had just one guy call me pretty or beautiful, would be a dream come true.
When I sit alone, I have these thoughts, horrible thoughts some would say, but to me they are heaven. They are dreams of depression, and suicide. They make me think, ‘Why am I here?’ Everyone hates me here; wouldn’t it be easier to end this suffering for everyone, end this ongoing nightmare. A good place for me is hell.
I went to my room to think about my options and lay them out in front of me, so I can chose which option is best for me. I sat there with my options laid out in front of me, as daunting as that may seem. My only options were, ignore them, self-harm to make the pain go away, and the third, the worst of them all, suicide...
I don’t at this point which I will choose but one of them is guaranteed. I would rather just end this suffering then die later trying to save myself from humiliation. I have suffered enough; I don’t know how much longer I can stay here, suffering, and in pain, drowning in my depression. I left my room to take a walk down the hall to the bathroom, to look in my mirror and sum up my options.
It is a harsh, desolate place that I inhabit; I do not simply speak of the pounding gale outside, threatening to wrench the door of the hinges, but also the pounding within my mind. It wants to be free, to take over me, to make me its slave. It tears at the walls of my consciousness, screaming laughing, too at my weakness. One day, it will be free. It is this entity within me given power by the coldness, the greyness, the blueness that makes me take the short walk to the bathroom, pluck a razor from the shelf and bring it to my skin. Laughing at my weakness.
The blood from the broken skin is more than a wound, it is a statement: a cry to the blueness that howls outside, prowling like a burglar trying to find the best entrance, that it will not win, that it will not be allowed to consume me The red is a dab of paint on an empty canvas, waiting for the artist to fill in the shapes, fill in the void. Screaming at my weakness.
Numb, I return to room, a paper towel wrapped around the damaged skin; the scarlet ocean, stirred by an angry wind, will not be by words alone. I ignore the stinging as I return to my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rage trying to destroy me. As I laid there listening to the forlorn howl of failure. I fell asleep and the walls collapsed around me.
This was the first I time I cut my skin, not in my dreams, but in reality this time. My only fear was that my parents would find the deep cuts engraved upon my wrist.
I was a pretty average girl, I did not have the looks, and I was looked at as sort of a 'nerd'. From the age of six I had learnt that I wasn’t like the other kids, I always felt different, an outcast. I approached my mother a few months ago and asked
“Why Mummy?, Why? Why am I so different?”
“Darling, I was waiting for you to be old enough to understand... you have what they call, Aspergers Syndrome which is a social impairment ...”
A tear came rolling down my cheek.
“Does that mean I can’t have any friends?”
“No Darling, you’ll just find making friends hard...”
Dealing with this hasn’t been easy, it never will be, but what else can I do?
I had only one close friend in Primary School, his name was Johnny, but Johnny went to a different High School to me. I thought that by the time I went to High School I would have some more friends but I didn't.
Mum drove me to school on my first day, it was quite scary walking into High School by myself, not knowing anyone, and having to sit by myself, painstakingly waiting for the school bell to ring. I got weird looks from older students, I got taunts from the boys in my grade, and the girls pointed and laughed at me.
First period was a nightmare; I sat up the front of the classroom near the teacher’s desk. And for the whole forty minutes I had paper, and pens thrown at me, jokes, and taunts about me. By that stage I was well known by my whole grade, but not in a good way. 'The Nerd'; 'The fat chick'; 'Four eyes'; and worst of all 'Beach ball'. That was what got to me most, 'beach ball'.
This continued the whole day. Lunch and recess was worse because I sat by myself and I had no one to stand up for me. The boys stole my lunch money, ripped up my school books, smashed my phone on the concrete, and threw my lunch in the garbage. For the rest of the day I starved, I had no food, no money, no drink, and my stomach was starting to growl at me.
It was finally the afternoon and it was time for the bus trip home. I boarded the bus and sat up the front expecting not to be noticed and left alone. But that was certainly not the case. I had my school bag thrown back and forth from one side of the bus to the other several times. I held back my desperate cries and screams for help, because I knew if I cried out it would make matters worse. After 20 minutes I finally managed to get my school bag back. Although my school bag was thrown about so much throughout today, it held together quite nicely, surprising enough.
When I eventually arrived home, Mum asked me how my first day of High School was, I replied with the first thing that came to mind... "It was great, I made lots of friends. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow!" with a fake smile upon my face, I walked silently to my bedroom. Lying was my only way to avoid telling my mum. I did not know how to tell her, let alone know how she will respond. It was my greatest fear. Forcing fake smiles from then on was my only way to hide my true pain. A pain that I feared my mum would discover soon enough.
I wished sometimes I was just like everyone else, I wanted to be popular and hang out with the cool people, and was able to catch a ball without dropping it. I just wanted to fit in with everyone else. If I had just one guy call me pretty or beautiful, would be a dream come true.
When I sit alone, I have these thoughts, horrible thoughts some would say, but to me they are heaven. They are dreams of depression, and suicide. They make me think, ‘Why am I here?’ Everyone hates me here; wouldn’t it be easier to end this suffering for everyone, end this ongoing nightmare. A good place for me is hell.
I went to my room to think about my options and lay them out in front of me, so I can chose which option is best for me. I sat there with my options laid out in front of me, as daunting as that may seem. My only options were, ignore them, self-harm to make the pain go away, and the third, the worst of them all, suicide...
I don’t at this point which I will choose but one of them is guaranteed. I would rather just end this suffering then die later trying to save myself from humiliation. I have suffered enough; I don’t know how much longer I can stay here, suffering, and in pain, drowning in my depression. I left my room to take a walk down the hall to the bathroom, to look in my mirror and sum up my options.
It is a harsh, desolate place that I inhabit; I do not simply speak of the pounding gale outside, threatening to wrench the door of the hinges, but also the pounding within my mind. It wants to be free, to take over me, to make me its slave. It tears at the walls of my consciousness, screaming laughing, too at my weakness. One day, it will be free. It is this entity within me given power by the coldness, the greyness, the blueness that makes me take the short walk to the bathroom, pluck a razor from the shelf and bring it to my skin. Laughing at my weakness.
The blood from the broken skin is more than a wound, it is a statement: a cry to the blueness that howls outside, prowling like a burglar trying to find the best entrance, that it will not win, that it will not be allowed to consume me The red is a dab of paint on an empty canvas, waiting for the artist to fill in the shapes, fill in the void. Screaming at my weakness.
Numb, I return to room, a paper towel wrapped around the damaged skin; the scarlet ocean, stirred by an angry wind, will not be by words alone. I ignore the stinging as I return to my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rage trying to destroy me. As I laid there listening to the forlorn howl of failure. I fell asleep and the walls collapsed around me.
This was the first I time I cut my skin, not in my dreams, but in reality this time. My only fear was that my parents would find the deep cuts engraved upon my wrist.