You're Not Okay

I stared at the scars decorating my thin pale wrists. I was so used to seeing them there that I couldn't imagine them gone. I was addicted to that pleasant searing pain that showed me my true value.

Maybe these scars were a plea for help, but whatever they were no one was answering...I want them to answer.

Sometimes when I say, “I’m okay,” I want someone to look me in the eyes hug me tight and say, “I know you are not.” Then I would let my tears fall and finally give in to the emotions I fight so hard with my cutting.

Maybe I’m what you’d call an attention seeker, but is that really so bad when I never get it? When my mother is either to drunk to notice the scars or not even home? When everyone in my school doesn’t give me a second glance unless it’s to call me a fag? When my teachers can barely remember my name?

I’m obviously not okay. But no one notices. No one cares.

Every time I get close to anyone they don’t notice my problems unless it’s to feed off of them. They just use me and hurt me even more. That’s why I’ve given up on my dream of someone seeing past my daily, “I’m okay”s. Believe me I still wish it would happen, I’m just no longer naïve enough to think it actually will.

Every day is spent with me trudging through the same rut. Wake up. Brush my teeth. Skip breakfast. Go to school. Do all my homework in class. Go home. Feel overwhelmed. Cut myself. Bandage the new cuts. Listen to music. Go to sleep. Restart the cycle.

I want to break the rut, I just don’t know how. I don’t know how to talk to people, or read a book, or even just smile anymore.

Maybe I wallow too much in self-pity, seeing as there are other people who have it much worse than I…but I can’t seem to stop. The only person I can still manage anything for is my brother. The one who’s away for college and calls once a month. But even with him lately I can’t even conjure up a good conversation anymore. I can’t even think of more ways to lie to him and make sure he knows I’m okay.

I glanced at the clock and realized I had to be to school in five minutes, but really? No one cared if I was late. They probably wouldn’t even care if I stopped going at all. But I wouldn’t stop because I really want to get out of this house. And I do get the slightest sense of accomplishment while I’m working occasionally.

I took my sweet time walking because I didn’t care enough to rush there. Wasn’t it enough that I was actually going?

Then a fucking idiot who thought it would be a good idea to ride on the sidewalk with a bicycle rammed into me.

I sprawled headfirst with my hands reaching out in front of me. My arms scraped against the sidewalk and a few of my newer cuts broke open.

“Shit!” I muttered.

The guy who was on his bike ran over at the sight of blood.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll just walk home and get some Band-Aids.” And after that, there would really be no point in going to school. I shouldn’t’ve gone in the first place.

“Wait! I have some in my back pack.”

I drew back at that confession. I didn’t want him to see where the cuts really came from. It was clear they weren’t from the sidewalk. And there were also scars that hadn’t broken. I wouldn’t be able to hide them.

“No, really. It’s ok. I don’t live that far away,” I said, almost pleading with him.

“Nonsense.”

He yanked the arm closest to him closer and started to clean it with a little wipe thingy. His eyes slowly widened as he got a better look at my cuts.

“Soo…If you don’t mind me asking…why do you carry around a first aid kit with you?” I asked, trying to avoid the inevitable subject. Or maybe he would just turn a blind eye like the other people who happened to see my cuts.

“I’ve fallen off my bike so many times that I realized I kind of needed one.”

By his response I began thinking he might actually just ignore them.

He finished cleaning both my arms and placed Band-Aids on them very carefully.

“There you go. All better.”

He pressed his lips on the last Band-Aid as he pressed it down.

“Umm…What is your name?” I asked stiffly, cursing myself at how stupid I sounded.

“I’m Kail. You are?”

I tried to remember my name for a second. Wow I’m stupid… “Ummm…Tristan.”

“You sure?”

I blushed and nodded at his question. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice my hesitation.

“So where are you heading Tristan?”

“To the high school a couple blocks away.”

I only realized after that he might be a stalker who wants to kill me. I also realized that I really wouldn’t care if he were.

“Really? Me too. We should go together.”

I grudgingly picked my things off the ground and walked beside him as he pushed his bike. The longer I stayed around this kid the more likely it was he would interrogate me. The walk was silent and awkward.

“So what class do you have first?” he asked as the school came into sight.

“Spanish II.”

“So do I! But I think we should ditch it today and have a little talk in the courtyard.”

Sweat started pouring down my face at his words. What did he want to talk about? Was he going to ask about the scars? Well, yeah he obviously was…what else would he want to talk about?

“So after this talk I’ll leave you alone if it’s what you really want. But just tell me: Why do you do it?”

I looked at him and saw his now serious face. Tears pricked at my eyes for some reason and I dug my nails into my arm to keep them from coming out.

“To stop the emotions.”

He looked at me long and hard. After a silence that seemed to last forever he asked, “But why don’t you want to feel emotions?”

I had to think about that for a really long time before I realized I didn’t exactly know the answer anymore.

“I…don’t know…”

I was shocked by the words that escaped my lips, even though I knew they were the truth. It was just too hard for me to accept ‘til now, when I was forced to sit down and look at it.

“I’m going to give you my number. Next time you feel like cutting, call me. I’ll talk you through it. I’ll let you do it, but I’ll be there for you. Okay?”

I don’t know why but I pulled out a pen and held out my arm, silently allowing him to give me his number.

“Look Tristan. Tell me one last thing. How are you feeling right now, this second?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that so I just muttered, “I’m okay.”

He looked straight into me as if he was gazing into my mind.

“No you’re not. I swear to God you’re not okay.”

And he was right. I wasn’t okay. But I hoped I could start on the path there.