Do Not Resuscitate

I bet Dad gets his parenting tips off websites created by oblivious parents.

Ask what you can do to help. Listen openly and reflectively. Be patient and nonjudgmental. Talk with your child in a kind way when you are calm and not angry, frustrated, or upset. Let him/her know you only want the best for him/her. Remind your child that he/she has people who care and support him/her. Leave your child unsupervised with a high calorie Frap and act obnoxiously excited when he/she “drinks” it in the time it takes for you to go downstairs and grab a personal heater. Never check the sink for evidence of said Frap being poured down the sink.

And whatever you do, never, ever check his/her backpack for sharp objects he/she bought at an overpriced convenient store while he/she was skipping school. You’ll only be disappointed.

Dad’s so clueless.

Or blissfully unaware, but really, what’s the difference?

I have an expensive, little pack of razors that I bought with his emergency credit card, and he has no idea. I almost can’t believe it. Dad didn’t go through my backpack. He had the chance, and he didn’t take it.

It’s like he trusts me or something.

Gross.

I cuddle farther into my cocoon of warmth. Three blankets, a comforter, and a heating pad. For the first time in days, weeks, months, I’m not deathly cold. I’d add the personal heater Dad brought up—until your body can keep you warm, Danny… maybe, I should get something cordless—but it’ll catch the fabrics on fire. I think. I’m not actually sure. I don’t know, it sounds logical to me, and burnt-slash-scarred marshmallow wouldn’t be a good look on me.

The pack of razors sits on my bedside table. Unopened. Next to the empty Frap container, which remains as a subtle reminder to Dad that I allegedly chugged it in the ten minutes it took him to find the personal heater and should be proof enough I deserve to be exempt from whatever other bullshit meal he has planned. Never mind my minor act of defiance in dumping the whole thing down the sink and not bothering to rinse the porcelain to cover-up my tracks. He was supposed to check. He didn’t. His fault.

He’s too preoccupied in the basement studio to ever notice.

Lucky me. The guys will distract him for hours. He won’t be back up in a long, long time, might manage to miss dinner, leave Val to deal with serving me snacks or meals upstairs, and she won’t hover over me till I clean my plate because her real child is too young to be left alone for long periods of time. I’ll get out of eating. I can use my razors when I want. I have a warm nest. I don’t have to listen to Dad ramble. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed.

So why do I feel hollow?

No, hollow’s not quite right. There’s something there. Lodged in my heart. Eating my stomach. Seeping through my veins. Making me ache.

Dad doesn’t care.

Ow, fuck, I hit my ribcage.

The air whooshes out of me. I can’t breathe. I press my bony-ass fist against my ribs, the spot it collided with seconds ago in kneejerk reaction. The pain is harsh, so harsh tears collect in my eyes. I have to clamp my teeth together to trap weird noises on the off chance someone might hear through my closed bedroom door—Dad forgot his rules.

That fucking hurt. And not a good, mind-numbing hurt. A stupidly painful kind of hurt. I’m going to have a bruise for a punch to the ribs that wasn’t worth it. God, damn it.

I screw up everything.

But I have a pack of razors. Waiting next to an empty Starbucks cup. Unopened. Clean. Ready. And nothing else matters.

I’m on autopilot, dizzy and unsteady and numb and somehow functioning, and the pack of razors has exploded, shiny metal decorating the pile of discarded, warm nest, winking in the light, and there’s a strip of cardboard in my mouth and crinkly plastic in my hands, and there’s this pounding in my ears, a steady thump thump thump, and I’m going to cut myself.

Right here.

In bed.

I’ll get blood on my sweater or blankets or perfect heating pad. Dad will check. Dad will see. Dad will be disappointed. Dad will talk and talk and talk. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m going to cut. He’ll get over it.

The cardboard, the plastic, they get tossed to the side, somewhere on the bed, it doesn’t matter where, and I have an X-Acto blade, the replacement kind meant to be put in a device, held carefully between my fingers and pressed to the underside of my arm, the sleeve pushed up to my elbow. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my skin prickles.

I’m going to do this.

The light sting of razor trying to cut through scar tissue, almost nonexistent, makes my breath catch. Not deep enough. But little beads of blood decorate the length, itty bitty, microscopic dots, and the tension loosens. Kind of. Barely. Enough. Better than nothing. I need more.

Another cut, just under the last. The pressure of digging past the scarring pulls the skin weird and pushes blood out of the first cut. It doesn’t hurt, not really. Just an initial sting and pressure. Until the blade is pulled away. Then it burns.

I still can’t feel it.

I’m watching from the outside but in my body at the same time, and it makes no sense and it does make sense and it’s confusing and it’s scary and it’s great. I’m lighter. My head is floating. I’m numb. Beautifully, fantastically numb.

And deep red blood beads up. Swelling and swelling and building and building and spilling over onto my sweatpants.

Oops.

It’s a hypnotizing calm, watching droplets fall until they come to a slow stop and slicing through thick layers of scars and watching droplets fall again and again and again, the same process on repeat. I get lost. I check out. Time lapses, highlighted by stinging sensations and a mess of deep red and nauseous dizziness and the solid headboard anchoring me down and warmth of a heating pad and it’s glorious.

Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing inside of me except the excited buzz between my ears. I lie there and enjoy the comfort of the heat and the escalating pain—the swollen flesh rubs against my sweater and the injuries are starting to register in my brain as assaults against my body and I feel so good for the first time in a long time and I should hide these razors—and I’m lurching to my feet, about to fall on my ass because I’m not stable, eyes bouncing over the surfaces of my room and searching for…

What am I looking for? Why am I standing?

There was something. A fleeting thought. It was important. Something, something, something. I was zoning and I was feeling good and I was thinking of, I don’t know, doing a thing. An important thing. Jesus H. Christ, what was I doing?

I amble around, pace on bony feet, up and down my room. Invisible needles pierce my soles, there’s a popping sound coming from my knees, and what was I going to do? I can’t remember. I just keep pacing, as if that’s actually going to help me jog my memory. I can’t stop. Moving hurts my joints and bones and soul. The blood that’s seeped into my sweats makes the fabric stick to my legs. I need to change. I’m shaking. I’m cold. I should cuddle in the warmth of the heating pad and bask in the sting of new cuts and stop thinking so, maybe, I’ll figure out what I got up for in the first place.

But I can’t stop pacing.

I’m stuck in the motions. Walking back and forth. In my room. Venturing into the hall. Walking the length, returning to my room, walking the length, returning to my room. To the top of the stairs. Down a couple steps, up the steps, to my room.

It hurts.

I can’t stop.

I’m crazy. I’m going to get committed. Pacing around the house and am I wringing my hands? I am. I belong in a straightjacket. I’ll get put in a straightjacket. I have to stop before Val or Brooklyn or, God forbid, Dad make a ridiculous surprise appearance, before they catch me and rush me to the hospital because I’m “compulsively exercising” or some crap even though I’m not exercising and I don’t have an eating disorder, and the doctor will make me put on a flimsy gown and they’ll see the cuts or feel the blood when shoving me into the car, and I have to stop. But I can’t. The connection between my legs and brain has snapped. I’m broken. I’m dysfunctional. I’m crazy.

How did I get here?

Seriously, not metaphorically.

A chunk of time got lost in the pacing. I blanked but kept moving. I walked down sets of stairs, through hallways, mindless, enough times to make my thighs ache, and I didn’t notice, I didn’t realize it, I didn’t see anything. It’s a stretch of blackness. I don’t know how I ended up here.

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, right outside the basement studio door.

I don’t want to be near the basement. They’re in there. The band, minus drummers. Their laughter wraps around the door, the deep rumbles of their voices form indistinct words, the occasional note, chord, whatever is muffled. This is the last place I should be.

There’s blood on my clothing.

Seeped into black fabric. But well-chosen fabric color doesn’t hide the texture of dried blood. It’s starting to crust. I think some splattered on the design, microscopic drops marring the giant skull with bat wings. Dad might miss the texture of dried blood and chalk the brownish red color up to an accidental spill, but he’s looking for a reason to lock me up. He’ll feel the blood. He’ll know the red was not an accident. He’ll force me to show him the marks. He’ll find my razors and he’ll get rid of them and he’ll spout some bullshit rule about how I won’t be allowed to go the store unsupervised, except that probably already is a rule.

Oh my God. I was supposed to hide my razors. I was going to package them up, put them someplace safe, and make sure Dad never found them. That’s what I meant to do. I’m such an idiot.

Fuck.

“You worry ‘bout you’self!”

The exclamation is clear, followed by high-pitched nonsense from a band member, probably Zacky because he’s the only one Brooklyn yells at.

Wait, Brooklyn?

Brooklyn’s in there.

But… but I’m not allowed in there. The rules, Dad’s had them since he put in the studio, since before that, since he’d practice with the band in the garage or the living room. No, Danny, the equipment is expensive, you’ll break it, you’re getting in the way, we need to get these songs done, ask your mother, wait until Daddy is done, wait until the red light is off to knock.

The red light is on.

And he let Brooklyn go in.

A lump swells in my chest, in my lungs, I think, obstructing my breathing. The bottom of my stomach falls out, twists, makes me nauseous. My hands are wringing again. The nails bite into skin. Tears perch on my eyelashes and drop down my cheeks when I blink.

It’s stupid and petty and narcissistic. Brooklyn’s my three-year-old half-sister. She’s young. I should be happy for her. She’s having fun. She gets to hang out with Dad and spend her life surrounded by music and instruments and encouragement. She’s allowed into the all-boys club that is band practice.

But I’m upset. I’m hurt. I’m jealous. Of my baby sister. Disgusting.

How many times have I sat outside, staring up at a shut door, wishing he would let me in, wishing he wanted me around? How many nights have I stayed up, desperately trying to learn to play an instrument so he’d let me into his practices just for a couple minutes, seconds, one moment?

A lot. Most of my childhood. Then, I gave up. Because Dad doesn’t want me around. Mom doesn’t want me around. No one wants me around. I don’t even want me around.

Why can’t he love me the way he loves Brooklyn? What did I do? Why can’t I be good enough?

There’s a yell over the frantic chatter, a “Hold on,” an “I’ll be back,” a “Give me a sec,” and the door swings open. Surprise, surprise, Dad’s bulky body is filling up the doorway.

I’m convinced he can, in fact, read minds.

Dad stops short, stares down at me, confused. “Danny? I was coming upstairs to… Are you okay?” And he goes to kneel in front of me.

Whole bunch of nope.

I stand up too fast. The blood rushes to my head, the world goes black, my knees go weak, but I stay standing, turn, and plan to walk up the stairs blind. The ICD didn’t discharge. I’m fine. I don’t need help. I don’t need Dad.

“Wait, hey, hold on.”

He grabs my upper arm, and I resist the urge to shove him off. That’s safe space. There’s no blood there. He won’t find anything, and I won’t give him a reason to check my arms.

I have to stop on the second step, grip the banister, and wait for the world to stop spinning anyway.

“Do you want to come in?”

I’ll pass.

“Val went shopping with Michelle. She wanted you to tag along, but we figured, well,” he scratches his head, “the pamphlets say clothing shopping would do more bad than good, and you seemed pretty tired. We thought we’d let you sleep.”

I stand corrected. He doesn’t get advice from websites created by naïve parents. He uses pamphlets. How archaic.

“But Brooklyn’s here.”

I. Know.

“And we have a shit ton of junk food.”

I’m going to scream.

He shifts. “I can get you a Diet Coke and one of those Greek yogurts or cut up fruit.”

Fuck off, Dad. I don’t want your junk food or your pathetic anorexic offerings. I don’t want to go in your precious studio and pretend being there is normal. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything. Go to hell.

Dad sighs, “At least let me help you back to your room.”

And I do shove his hand off.

I’ll get up the stairs myself.