Do Not Resuscitate

I want to cry. More. Again. Curl in a tight ball and bleed tears all over my face and hair and sweats. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Not anymore. Another day. Another week. Another… who knows how long this time? I’m too tired. I’m too cold. I’m too angry. I’m too sad. A deep aching kind of sad. The kind I can feel cutting through my bones, zapping my energy, making everything suck. I want it to end.

I want to die.

I should have died, but I didn’t.

I’m not happy. I don’t feel some intense relief that doctors managed to get to me just in time and put their stupid shocking box inside of me. I didn’t have a magnificent revelation about life and how I’m lucky and starving to death would have been an accident and thank goodness for the omnipotent creature in the clouds for giving me another chance.

I want to die.

That’s it. That’s all I want, all I need, and no one will let me have that. No one will let me be happy. No one will acknowledge they’d be better off without me. Because acknowledging a human life is worthless is against kneejerk human nature. Morons.

I close my eyes, lean my head against the passenger side window, and try to hold back another flood. I wish I could sleep and at least pretend I’m drifting out of my disgusting, ugly, useless body. Float away. Light. Happy. Erased and forgotten.

Too bad the road’s bumpy and Dad won’t stop talking.

It’s his natural reaction, I think. Talking nonstop when he doesn’t know how to handle something. As if my nonexistent eating disorder is something he needs to handle. He’s been doing it since he showed up at the hospital, bright and early and full of annoying smiles.

He’s giving me one of those smiles again. I can feel it.

I don’t want to go back to his house. I’m over dealing with his puppy dog eyes and his hovering and his misplaced sense of guilt or valor or something and his speeches full of overdone, supportive parental phrases about how he’s not going to let me die and we’ll get through this and I love you, Danny. He drives me crazy. He gives me a headache. His words are meaningless and empty and pointless and why can’t he keep them to himself? I don’t want to hear it anymore. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of him. I’m tired of life.

I want to die.

Can’t he get that through his thick skull and let go?

He won’t. Of course, he won’t. He’ll just keep talking and smiling like everything is just fine and dandy, not-so-secretly hovering in the name of keeping me safe from myself, offering me anything I could possibly want except the one thing I actually want. He’s going to try to save me because that’s what M. Shadows does. Even though saving fans through his music and interviews and kind messages and generally good-looking musician daddy bod isn’t at all the same as trying to save his own child when she doesn’t need his useless attempts at saving.

No one’s going to understand how he couldn’t keep me from offing myself, and I don’t have the energy to care.

I want to die.

And I will.

There’s a lull in his never-ending, one-sided conversation. Suspicious. I pry open my eyelids, puffy and red and a little painful from a night spent crying, and watch Dad from my peripheral vision.

I can’t look at him directly. It makes him think I’m paying attention to him or I’m not completely lost to my nonexistent eating disorder or I’m a functioning teenager.

There’s internal debate in his eyes and hard-set jaw, words he wants to say refusing to leave his lips. Go ahead, Dad, say what you have to say. Tell me how fucked up I am. Tell me you wish you hadn’t gotten stuck with me. Tell me how difficult I’m being. Tell me you don’t want me around. Tell me I’m ruining everything. Tell me I’m wasting your money by breathing. Tell me you wish you had never had me. Tell me what you’re really thinking. I can handle it.

He sighs, glances at me, eyes wary. I know, Dad. I know.

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. He shakes his head, grabs his Starbucks coffee from the cup holder next to Val’s coffee and Brooklyn’s non-coffee, strawberry, blended thing and “my” Frappuccino, takes a cautious sip, and puts it back. He sends a smile my way. He takes a breath like he’s actually going to say something monumental, important, painful.

“You don’t want the Frap.”

That… can’t be what he meant to say.

“I’m sorry. I should have gotten you black coffee, I know, but I was hoping you would drink it anyway. It doesn’t even fit in the meal plan. I was… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

I hate coffee.

What makes him think I’d want black coffee? What did I do to indicate I drink coffee? Who even drinks black coffee? People without taste buds? Does he think my taste buds don’t work because the doctor told him I had an eating disorder?

I don’t have an eating disorder, and I don’t drink black coffee.

“I shouldn’t push you like that. You’re not ready, and I don’t know why I thought…”

I am too tired for this madness, Dad. Either explain yourself or shut up.

“I was reading up on…” he hesitates. His smile wavers. He looks awfully uncomfortable. “Eating disorders,” he manages to say.

And the internet told you people with eating disorders don’t have taste buds. Got it.

“Certain foods and drinks make you uncomfortable.”

Don’t tell me how to feel.

“I understand. Eating’s hard. I just… I want to make sure you eat something. Whatever you consider safe, I want it in the house. Constantly stocked. If eating in front of us makes you uncomfortable, well,” he shrugs, “you can eat in your room. Door open, of course. But we’ll work on getting you comfortable coming downstairs, and we’ll introduce the unsafe foods back into your diet. Slowly.”

Dad, get off the internet.

“Val went grocery shopping last night. The kitchen is stocked. Every kind of low calorie food we could think of is there. Yogurt, rice cakes, apples, grapefruit, Special K, Weight Watchers frozen meals, eggs so you can eat the whites, bread and you don’t have to put anything on it but we have some peanut butter and some low calorie jelly and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and Diet Coke.”

Did that “Father of an Anorexic” badge hurt when they pinned it on your chest?

“We’re probably missing something. Val and I weren’t sure what your safe foods are. We guessed.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Using the internet.”

I bet he blocked every pro-ana site he came across, too, because he thinks that’s where I spend my time when locked up in my room all day or where I get my ideas or where I find a community of girls just like me to give me daily confirmation that I’m in the right and he’s in the wrong.

I don’t need a site full of terrifyingly clicky girls to tell me Dad is wrong, and I don’t have an eating disorder that needs online validation.

I just want to die.

“Tell me if we’re missing something. I mean, you can write it on the grocery list. You don’t have to say anything.”

That’s the beauty of it, Dad. I don’t need anything. Stop wasting your money on food. I won’t eat it. Check in on me, sit with me, force me to stay at the table until my plate is clean, try whatever useless tactic you want. I won’t eat. I don’t have to, and you can’t make me.

His expression takes on a strange edge of desperation, eyes pleading, deep lines around his mouth, his brows drawn. As if he can actually hear what I’m thinking.

“I’m here for you. Val is here. Even Brooklyn is here. It’s scary, I get it, but we’ll get through this.”

Mom’s not here. Mom gave up. You should, too.

“No one’s angry at you, Danny. We just want to help you.”

He pulls the car into the driveway. Thank god. I can collapse on my bed and try to sleep. Curl in a ball and try to stop the hunger pains. Under a thick comforter and a couple blankets. The warmest I’ve been in days.

Maybe Dad will stop talking at me, too.

“What are they doing here?”

It’s an offhand mutter. More for himself than for me. I’m tired. I don’t care who’s here. I’m more concerned about my seatbelt and trying to unhook it. The sooner I can get in, the sooner I can struggle up the stairs to my room. To my cloud bed.

“Hold on. I’ll help you out.”

Whatever.

He leaves his seat, slams his door without grabbing the Starbucks drinks, rushes around to my side, opens my door, and has my seatbelt unhooked before I can blink or think or do much aside from stare. With an encouraging, rumbly mumble of “Come on,” he helps me out of the car, keeping his arm hooked under my armpits. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Because standing too fast makes me feel lightheaded and dizzy and sick and… he knows that.

How does he know that? Who told him?

He even stands there for a moment after shutting the door, holding me steady, waiting to make sure I’m okay enough to move, and when he steers me towards the door, he moves slowly, grip firm, mumbling words that become a low constant hum in my ear. Across the sidewalk. Watch your step. Almost there. The stairs. There we go. Until we’re inside and the door is shut behind us.

I… I don’t know… whatever this is, the feeling in my chest and stomach and making my head heavy, I don’t like it.

“Sissy!”

Brooklyn barrels around the corner, brown pigtails flopping, straight into my legs. I collapse against Dad on impact, unable to hold myself up because excited three-year-olds are energetic and strong enough to knock a body builder over—it’s encoded in their DNA, I’m pretty positive—and he holds me up, murmuring something I can’t catch. Brooklyn’s grip is tight around my legs, and she rubs her nose against my sweats, her weird little motion of affection.

I’m overwhelmed. There’s too much touching, too much attempted affection, too much. I don’t like it. I don’t know what to do with it. I think I’m allergic to it. I must be. That’s why there’s tightness in my chest and throat, why my legs feel wobbly, why my head is swimming.

Brooklyn peers up at me, smiling her adorable, dimpled smile. “You smell like a doctor.”

Yeah, the nurse bathed me. I was starting to rot. Now let me go, child.

There’s a crash from the living room, which makes Brooklyn scowl in the direction—but she won’t release her death grip—and a feeble cry of “I tried to stop them” from a voice I recognize. I think. Maybe. More from watching Dad’s interviews over and over, when I used to pretend he was talking to me even though the words never fit with the dialogue in my head, than from the occasional visit.

Uncle Brian?

But Uncle Brian isn’t the one to round the corner in an angry huff. No, Dad’s other goons, allies in the world of entertainment, band members, my “uncles” by sheer association do. Uncle Zacky and Uncle Johnny. Bulky, angry forms with almost identical, accusatory expressions geared towards Dad. Dad tucks me into his body and places a protective hand on Brooklyn’s head.

That allergic reaction is getting worse. Loud, desperate breathing, lungs refusing to fill, heart hammering in my ears, the world moving in slow motion. I can’t.

“What the fuck is this?” Uncle Zacky says, motioning in wide swipes. “You call him but you don’t call us.”

His focus is on Dad, but Uncle Johnny’s eyes are on me. I can feel his stare, can feel his discomfort, can feel him taking in my hallowed cheeks and greying skin and sagging sweats and puffy eyes and red nose. Dying isn’t pretty, and I was ugly enough to begin with.

I’m going to asphyxiate.

“Language,” Dad snaps.

“Brooklyn’s heard worse,” Uncle Zacky retaliates.

“Danny—”

“Is a teenager. She’s probably said worse. To you.”

“She doesn’t—”

“You look like hell,” Uncle Johnny blurts.

Dad jolts and jerks me tighter against him. “Johnny,” he hisses, a rebuke for the careless but true remark.

“Sorry, I… Sorry,” Uncle Johnny mutters.

But his comment has drawn Uncle Zacky’s attention. He’s staring. Uncle Johnny is staring. Brooklyn is attached to my legs. Dad is hooked to my shoulders. Is skin supposed to crawl, burn, itch? I need to rip it off. I need to scratch it. I need to bleed.

Stop staring. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.

“Shit, kid.” Uncle Zacky blows out a heavy breath through his nose. “You really did a number on yourself.”

“Jesus fuc—” Dad stops himself short. Silence, tense silence, for a moment, and then, “What are you doing here?” said through Dad’s teeth.

Pulverizing your oldest child’s self-esteem, Dad.

Jay Kay. I already hate myself.

There’s a bunch of big, wide motions in my peripheral vision. Uncle Zacky, unable to put his thoughts into words. Danny’s bullshit, the motion says, we’re here because of Danny’s bullshit tantrum, get your daughter under control, Matt, we have an album to record or a tour to prep for or an interview with dual photo-shoot or a signing or a dozen other things more important than your daughter’s bullshit.

Water is leaking out of my eyes.

“He messin’ up tha notes,” Brooklyn announces, still scowling her glorious scowl at Uncle Zacky.

His arms fall, and I’m sure his mouth is hanging open. “You little shit,” he says.

Brooklyn puts on the most pitiful pout, manages to force tears to her big eyes, and whips around to Dad. “Daddy!” she whines.

“Zacky.”

Dad’s got his low, thunderous, warning tone on. His baby has been called a name, involving a swear word no less.

The fuzzy buzzing rattling around in my head jumps to the point of pain. The world is tilting or spinning or a mix of the two. There’s so much water in my eyes. Everything is blurry. Allergic reaction, that’s all.

“We called Brian,” Uncle Johnny says. I can barely hear him over the buzzing. “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Silence. Brooklyn’s big eyes dart back and forth between Dad and our uncles, and I know what they’re doing. That thing where they make weird facial expressions and move their heads and somehow understand each other. They think I don’t know. They think I’m an absolute moron. I don’t care.

I don’t.

Dad sighs, his whole body expanding and contracting, and… his voice sounds like music. Low and nice and scratchy but smooth in the weirdest contradictory way and where are we going?

Dad guides me slow and steady through the hallway. His voice rambles on about who knows what. Uncle Zacky and Uncle Johnny disappear into the living room, and Brooklyn scuttles after them. Dad brings me to the living room entrance and—

Too many instruments.

They’re fucking everywhere.

Breathe. Don’t cry. I’m not playing them. I’ll be fine. Look at something else. Look at Brooklyn flailing her arms and ranting. Look at Uncle Zacky with his hands on his hips, pretending to be angry. Look at Uncle Johnny trying not to laugh. Look at Uncle Brian giving Brooklyn the attention she needs during her hand-flailing complaint and mindlessly letting his finger glide over his unplugged guitar. He makes it look so easy. It’s not easy. It’s impossible. But other people can do it. Why can't I?

I'm too stupid.

“Hey, kid.”

Uncle Brian. He’s standing and smiling at me and putting his guitar down and his hand is mussing Brooklyn’s hair, another mindless gesture, and Uncle Johnny and Uncle Zacky are flanking Brooklyn’s other side, and Dad’s here. The whole band minus dead drummer and replacement drummer.

No, no, I’m not doing this reunion today. I’m not playing their game. The “we haven’t said a word to Danny in years but she’s fucking up everything worse than normal and, hey, we’ll talk to her and pretend to care if it gets her to stop” game.

I can’t fucking breathe.

Uncle Brian shifts from one foot to the other. His head tips, his eyebrows draw together, and his eyes dart to Dad, then back to me. “Been awhile.”

And your cheekbones could still cut diamonds, Uncle Brian. Dad better lock those up, too. Wouldn’t want to cut myself on them.

More fidgeting. More awkwardness. More staring. More questioning glances at Dad. More waiting for me to fill my role by jumping to the pathetic attempt at small talk. I won’t. I can’t. Something heavy is pushing on my chest. Heavy and uncomfortable. The ICD, maybe, or a bowling ball.

Dad clears his throat. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

An excuse for my behavior.

I’m sorry, Dad.

“Want to go upstairs?” Dad asks. Smiling brightly at me despite my royal insult to his friends, despite the awkward encounter I forced, despite wanting to pack me up and send me back to Mom. “I set up a heating pad on your bed and added some blankets. I can bring up a heater, too, so you don’t get cold.”

Yes, please. I don’t belong here.