On Judgment03:24 Apr 01 2011
Times Read: 651
“If you die… it will forever destroy me.” Those were his words, except he didn’t say forever. He said something else that starts with the same letter. And I froze. Adam doesn’t curse, ever. No matter what. Maybe, just maybe, I could really force myself to stay alive… if not for me, then for him. He was the only person who’d listen to my furious rants about how people judged me without even knowing me, how much that hurt, how I knew I’m hard to get to know but people just cannot judge a person unless they know her. I didn’t know how to respond to this statement. At first, I just wanted to ignore it. Pretend I didn’t care. But I can’t lie to him. So I told him the truth – that I owed him my life – and now I’ll do the same for you.
A while back, a girl realized she couldn’t handle her life. She couldn’t deal with the people talking about her, making nasty comments to her, and so on. She felt like she was entirely helpless. But there was one thing she had complete control over: her death. At any moment of her choosing, one flick of a blade could end the pain. It was just so simple, so easy. A way of saving herself and throwing guilt at her tormentors. Two birds, one stone. Perfect. But she couldn’t do it. There were very few things stopping her in number, but in value, they were strong. The first and most powerful was her boyfriend of a year and a half. She felt sick just imagining the agony it would cause him. The second was the “finding factor.” She didn’t want her mom to walk into her room and find her lying dead on the floor in a puddle of her own blood. The third thing was this faint hope that somehow, things would turn out okay eventually. That someday she could have a nice home in Virginia, with kids and the career she desired. Lastly, there was the fear that suicides go to hell. She didn’t particularly want to know what that was like.
So she found a less traumatic way to release the emotional pain. It became more and more apparent that somehow, cutting was distracting her from the feelings inside and focusing her on the physical sore, which was much easier to deal with. However there were downsides to her little “solution” that she hadn’t even considered. One: It’s incredibly addictive. At first, it was just the occasional cut, barely even drawing blood. But by the time she was caught, she was cutting approximately six – yes, six – times a day. Two: You swear to yourself you won’t cut to deep. You can control it. You’re wrong. You can’t. You get to the point where it doesn’t stop bleeding and you panic, you have to figure something out fast, because you can’t go to the hospital or they’ll know everything. Three: The lying. She’d never lied to her parents before. But all of a sudden, she felt like her whole life was a lie. Every day, acting happy, upbeat, normal… all a lie. And the first time the scars were ever noticed, she lied about what happened to her arm. And it was utterly terrifying, how natural it was to spin off lie after lie to cover her own dirty little secret.
Of course, her very close friends knew. They knew and she’d sworn them to secrecy. They were only in middle school, lacking the wisdom to rat her out. Sometimes, she wished they would, especially when she finally figured out that it was getting out of control. But she kept on telling them not to breathe a word of it, and throwing more pressure and stress at them than they deserved or could handle. Eventually, it didn’t even take a trigger. She just cut because it helped, because she needed it, because she was addicted to the point where she depended on it. After a while she graduated from a thumbtack to her pocketknife. It was only a few days after that that her mom noticed the scars, and she lied about how she got them. The next day, she was paranoid and wore a sweatshirt in the Florida late spring. Walking out of the orthodontist’s office, her mother confronted her with a small comment about the sweatshirt. She replied that it was cold in school and she’d just been too lazy to take it off, but she slid it off anyway for appearances’ sake. Her mom was silent until they got into the car, but she didn’t start it up. The girl’s heart was racing with fear at her mother’s next move. Finally, before the suspense killed her, her mom spoke.
“Show me your arms,” she demanded. The girl froze, panicking. She felt sick.
“What?” she asked, trying to play it cool.
“Let me see your wrists,” her mother repeated. She closed her eyes and took a breath. Her mom took her hand and turned her arm so the inside was up.
“Mom it’s nothing, I swear,” she said, barely aware of her own words, knowing how useless they were. Her mom just kept repeating her name, a tone in her voice she’d never heard before. Then she asked why. Why?
“I don’t know,” came the weak answer. It was true. Truer than the girl had thought.
“I knew you were unhappy, but I didn’t think you were in this much emotional pain.”
“I’m not, Mom. I just… I don’t know. It’s nothing, really. I swear. Are you gonna have to tell Dad about this?” she asks, scared.
“Yes, of course,” her mother replied. Her tone was still frightening, almost ghostly, like she’s in shock.
“He’s going to be mad at me!” she complained. She looked up, and her mom was crying.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” she asked for the millionth time.
“It’s not a suicide attempt if that’s what you’re implying,” said the girl. “It shouldn’t be this bad. It’s addictive. I couldn’t stop.”
I couldn’t stop. And among the biggest reasons was the horrid feeling of unfair judgment fellow students had thrown upon me. I’ve always had friends, gotten along, been just fine, but no matter what there are always those who, knowingly or not, make you feel like scum. Those who mutter about you to their friends without thinking it could get back to you, or tease you about the little things, or point out your flaws with no cruel intentions. And for each comment, another scar appeared on my wrist, more of my own blood – my life force – slipped away.
A lot of people are living the normal teenage life with tons of friends and shopping and music and parties… a life I’d give anything to be part of. But that’s incredibly difficult to do when you’re dealing with clinical depression and bipolar disorder. To most of you, when you hear bipolar you think I’ll love you one second and hate you the next. It’s not like that. One second I’m on top of the world, queen of the universe, high as a kite, and the next I just want to curl up and fade away into oblivion. I hate everything and just want to get away from it all. Yes, it does affect how I act and often how I treat people. I often am rude or caustic when I feel so low I could just die. It’s a self defense mechanism… it happens without me having much control over it. But the responses it ushers only make my condition worse. Dealing with this makes it difficult for people to get to know me – the real me. Keep in mind, I’m still human. I’m just suffering, and I can’t express it how I’d like to. Go ahead. Some of you are going to laugh, call me an emo freak. I’m not. I don’t cut anymore and I haven’t for a long time. I’m not suicidal or anything. Granted, I have those moments, but I wouldn’t ever act on them.
I’m not asking for your sympathy. In fact, I don’t particularly desire it. We all have trials. I don’t deserve your pity any more than anyone else. Instead, what I am asking, is that you consider – please – that there is always more than meets the eye with a person. There is just no way to make assumptions about someone unless you really know him.
COMMENTS
-
foxglove
02:38 Apr 03 2011
You are so correct. So many of us judge without thinking. We can't possibly know what's inside another person. The pain they might suffer.