Cracks in the Sidewalk

He sighs, thinking of his freshman year: the beginnings of what will soon become manic depression with a side of suicide attempts and general teenage angst. He grabs a beer from the refrigerator. Opening it and taking a sip, he remembers his first time drinking socially. It was awkward. He'd been used to drinking already by then, considering his extensive experience from his 2AM binges to dull his pain. He takes another drink and looks at the first scar. It's fading, almost gone, but he can still see it, he'll never forget it. How could he forget his first big cut? A tear falls onto his keyboard, he makes sure his roommate isn't looking, and rubs his eyes.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for high school. Nothing at all. Before I even get there, I learn that I will have to adjust to a new set of rules; rules that include a strict adherence to the social hierarchy. I learn at band camp that I am a loser and I re-discover self hatred.

My section leader, Christine, is a control freak and a bitch. The best part is that I have no choice but to listen to her. She's only a junior, but she's friends with all of the seniors. She can do no wrong, and I must abide by her every command. It starts off very simple-with verbal abuse. I'm used to this. People telling me I'm worthless is nothing new to me at all. I adhere to all of the hazing traditions for freshmen, but still somehow get it the worst in my cabin. When I wake up on the last day (the morning after the seniors go out and emotionally destroy the freshmen), I am covered head to toe in shaving cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, sprinkles, honey, chocolate chips, confectioner's sugar, and baby powder. Right after I wake up, of course, I'm thrown into a shower, fully clothed. Still, I take it, not wanting to buck the system. I'll be able to do anything I want to freshmen when I'm a senior, right? That is the idea of hazing traditions: they suck for you, but if you man up and make it through, you get to do it to someone else once you've earned your place.

She spends the entire football season making fun of me, and showing me that I'm a social outcast, even within the marching band. I start to spend my nights incoherently drunk, and occasionally cut, just to dull the emotional pain. I feel relieved when I cut, like my problems flow out of me in the lines of blood dripping down my arm. I buy my first knife. It's a simple folding knife, and I hide it in my desk drawer. Nobody finds it, it becomes my little secret. I learn that while society shuns me, my knife is a constant, always there, and always ready and willing to help me make the pain go away. I develop my real love for self-harm, and make the first big cut, right along my left bicep. I make a mistake-it's a bit too low, my t-shirt sleeves don't always cover it. I have to wear sweatshirts in school for a few weeks while it scabs over, so nobody sees. Thank god it's winter.

I have a teddy bear I made at Build-a-Bear with my family a few years ago. I just found it in a box I never finished unpacking after the second move (in fifth grade, we moved to a different part of the neighborhood), and sleep holding it. Mom finds it strange, but doesn't say anything about it for a while. Every now and again, she'll make an offhand comment about a 15 year old kid sleeping with a teddy bear, but I don't care what she thinks. He listens to me, he lets me hug him when I need to, he's there for me when I need him. He's a better friend than some of my real 'friends'. He knows all of my secrets, and will never share them with anyone. He truly is my closest friend. When I make my first big cut, I fall asleep with him next to me. At some point, he winds up with his chest against my arm, because I wake up with him hugging it, his chest covered in my blood. It takes me weeks to finally get the blood out without Mom noticing.

He finishes his beer, sobbing silently to himself. He decides it's time to stop typing for the evening. His roommate is going to sleep, and he feels as if he'll begin to cry too hard if he has to relive all of this right now. It's sad to think that sometimes, he still feels like this-like his knife is a close friend, the one friend that has never let him down, like it has always been there for him, because it has. He still has his first knife at home, hidden in a special place. He won't ever part with it, nor will he ever let someone else find it. It is his secret, and it is a part of him. He thinks about his other secret-his teddy bear. He's happier it's with her. He went through so much with it, and he's happy it's found a place in her heart and with her at school, to make the distance easier. He's happy something good has come of his misery.