Do Not Resuscitate

I don’t want to be this way.

Broken to the point of uselessness. A defective doll that has to be cleaned and dressed and put back on its rock-solid bed, away from children should they accidentally choke on a stray part. Tucked under too many blankets, but still cold, freezing, shaking. Zoned out in an unsteady haze. Exhausted and wide awake. Clothed in a second skin of pain. The steady scrub, scrub, scrub of Dad cleaning the bathroom the soundtrack over the nothingness in my head. Staring at a piece of paper covered in crayon, refusing to let it go, reading the scraggly words over and over and over and over and over, engraining the images into the shrinking walls of my brain.

Sory.

Brooklyn…

The scrubbing stopped. Every destroyed muscle in my body tenses, my breath gets stuck somewhere in my lungs, my heart is pounding. I’m ready, but not ready. Terrified but wanting to get the impending, one-sided conversation done. Prepared to attempt to block out the sound of disappoint or anger or frustration that’s sure to seep into his voice. Fail but attempt nonetheless.

Because Dad hasn’t said a word to me.

He won’t talk to me, but he doesn’t stop speaking. He drowns me in not-so-silent silence. Talking around me, whispering about me, mumbling to everyone but me, even to himself. He can’t stop talking. He’s overflowing with steam, and he has to release it the only way he knows how. By talking.

But he hasn’t said anything to me.

He’s angry. He’s going to yell at me. He’s going to give me a lecture. Another one. About throwing up, starving, cutting my body in front of Brooklyn. In a place where she can see me, see the aftereffects, see the vomit and blood everywhere, see me shaking, crying, dying. Absorbing and internalizing my behavior. One day becoming me.

Sory.

I’m sorry.

A curse, one of many mumbled under his breath that he thinks I can’t hear. The spray of the lemon-scented, noxious fumes he’s been using in a desperate attempt to clear out the stink of vomit, which only makes the smell worse.

And the scrub, scrub, scrub starts again.

He’s still cleaning.

I should be cleaning. I should be the one scrub, scrub, scrubbing at the floor. I should be the one struggling with goopy, gross bile. I should be the one suffocating on the rancid smells colliding. But Dad has to do it. Because I can’t do anything.

Fucking useless.

He curses again, a long string of foul language breaking up the scrubbing and spraying and ripping of paper towels. He’s mad. He’s done with me. He’s going to abandon me again because I’m an awful daughter, an awful sister, an awful person. I’m a strain on everyone. I’m ruining their happy lives. My fault. All my fault. Always my fault.

I’m sorry.

I don’t want to be this way. Barely functioning. Barely responsive. Barely alive. Dying and desperately itching to crawl back into the bathroom to shove my fingers down my throat, to take something sharp, anything sharp, to my skin, to revel in the feeling of lightheaded starvation, to hurt.

No one wants to be this way. We just are.

The crayon-covered paper is crumpling in my hands. The words are hidden under creases, but I can still them. They’re seared into my brain.

Love You. Sory.

I’m sorry.

The scrubbing stops. Again. I tense. Again. Waiting. Suffocating on held breath. Willing the buzzing to go away so I can make out noises of Dad sneaking up on me. I hear crinkling of plastic bags. Water running, splashing, shutting off. Heavy footsteps.
Out of the bathroom.

Go away.

Across my carpet.

Go away.

And there’s Dad. Not looking at me. Rubbing his eyes. Not looking at me. Shaking his head. Not looking at me. Shuffling loudly. Not looking at me. Slouching from the exertion needed to clean the bathroom or tolerate me, I’m not sure which.

Refusing to look at me.

Please, for the love all that is holy, go away.

He sits. On the edge of the bed. His back to me. Runs his hands through his hair before resting his face in them. Heaves a sigh. Seconds tick. Minutes maybe. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at me. He just sits there on my bed, with his face in his hands, slouching in his obnoxious, dejected way.

Goawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoaway.

Dad takes a deep breath. His hands fall away, his head hangs, his back curves even more if that’s possible. In his rumbly, low voice, faint, wavering words:

“I don’t know what to say.”

I do.

You have a script, Dad. You should know it by now. Tell me you’re disappointed in me. Tell me I should do better, I should try harder. Tell me what I’m doing is unacceptable. Tell me how hard you try. Tell me about all the opportunities I’m being given in life, how lucky I am, and other kids have it harder, Danny. But in that nice roundabout way of yours. The one you used when I cried about not being able to sing on key or when I threw a tantrum over going to dance practice because the girls didn’t like me and I didn’t belong there and I tried to tell you or when I begged you not to make me go to an ex-friend’s sleepover party and you didn’t understand the complicated dynamics of fights between fifth grade girls or when I got thrown off the bullshit, middle school “cheerleading” squad for missing too many practices or when my report card showed up at your house that one time instead of Mom’s and you saw the F and the two D’s and all those pretty C’s lined up in a row and that vein in your forehead bulged.

“I can’t stop you. I get it. You proved your point.”

Sory.

He shrugs, hefts his big shoulders, folds under their weight. “Congrats… I guess.”

Fuck.

Do you think I want to do this? Do you think that if I could help it, I would keep on? Do you think I wouldn’t stop? Do you think I want to be this person?

I had hopes once. I had dreams. When I was Brooklyn’s age, wide-eyed, excited about the world, and—I like to think I was—pretty happy. I was going to do great things. I was going to make you and Mom proud. I was going to be pretty and popular and dating the star quarterback and make straight A’s and have the perfect body. I was going to be an astronaut and a ballerina and a firefighter and a doctor and a singer just like you and a fashion designer just like Mom. Everything. All at once. I was going to be someone that, maybe, just maybe, the two of you could love.

And here I am.

Something’s wrong with me.

“Danny…” He coughs. His shoulders shake. He sniffles. He’s crying.

I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Stop it. Stop crying at me. Stop crying over who I used to be. That happy little girl with black pigtails and shining hazel eyes and an adorable button nose and the pretty smile, prancing around in the bright red dress her mother made for her, whose first word was “no,” a word she used liberally to get her large father to bend to her will when he was in a good mood, the little girl from the baby books and family photos and home videos, she doesn’t exist. She’s gone.

Something’s wrong, Dad.

And I don’t know what it is.

I’m hurting. I wish I could tell you, and you’d actually understand, magically sift through the clutter and know what’s wrong. I’m dying in front of you. I hurt. Physically, emotionally, mentally hurt constantly. It’s unbearable. And I can’t stop myself. Do you know what that’s like, Dad?

“I’m scared.”

… Me too.