2
If I look back, the decision to leave school landed on my mom, but if you ask her she’ll just say there wasn’t really much of a choice. Circumstances made it for us.
Sixth grade started off okay but by
the end of the year, things were rocky. My anxiety, which I’d had for years, came out full force. By seventh, things were worse, and even a medication change didn’t help. That’s when everything fell apart.
I’d started spending most of my day in the bathroom, or the counselor’s office, hiding from the nonstop mindfuckery of my fellow students. There was Josh, who thought making sex noises was funny. And Sean, who thought Josh was funny, his stupid laughter echoing through the stuffy room. Then there was Nate, who asked me every day if I was a lesbian. I’m not a lesbian but I don’t have anything against lesbians, so it felt wrong to say no so defensively, but the answer was still no. Plus, how many times do you have to say no? They mocked my closeness to my female friends, making me doubt my behavior with them. Did I stand too close? Should I not invite them over?
I slowly pulled away from them too, not wanting to subject them to the same scrutiny.
There was Eric, who sat behind me and whispered commentary in my ear, day-in and day-out, questioning my clothes, my hair, the pimple on my chin. He never stopped, including the day I stepped on my pencil sharpener. When I picked it up he sneered, “I bet you’re going to go slash your wrists in the bathroom, right?”
To be fair, the idea suddenly didn’t seem so bad.
Things were getting intense and my mom knew something was off, but the more she asked the more I clammed up. I didn’t want to stress her out. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. I just wanted it all to stop, you know? Just. Fucking. Stop.
So one night I took that blade, the sharp one, and remembered Eric’s words. Maybe I should…maybe I should—this little voice in my head just started talking, whispering all the things the kids said all day. Maybe I do like girls. Do I like girls? Maybe I don’t wash my hair. Maybe I smell. Maybe I wear the same jeans every day. Maybe everyone watches everything I do. Everything I say. Everything I eat. Everyone I talk to. Everything. Everything. Everything.
And then that slice…it just…it gave me peace.
Peace.
In a thin line of blood and pain. It made me feel…something different from the numbness I’d used to block out the voices all day. And then I felt bad. So bad. And when my mom asked me about the scars, I said it was the cat. And when my friend asked me about the cut, I said I was careless shaving. And then one day…one day the whole world felt like it was swallowing me whole. Gulping me down like a whale in the ocean, and the cut got bigger, deeper, and I knew. I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t, until the voices ceased entirely.
And my mom, when I told her, the look on her face, it was bad. Scary. She was scared and my mom was never scared. I’d written in a poem in third grade titled, “My Mother is a Wolverine.” I’d meant it. My mom was scary, but when she saw that cut, the deep one, I saw it. Felt it. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.
So she plucked me out of school.
That was it.
No more.
Because my mother acted. She didn’t wait for others to fix problems. She fixed problems. Or tried to, and she tried with me, but the one thing she wouldn’t do, even after the program, after the therapy, after the medication change and my brain became unscrambled, was let me go back to school.
She kept me at home.
Because she was scared.
And then even though I was better, I got scared.
Together, we were scared.
There were too many unknown variables. Could I handle it? What if the cutting started again? What if it was worse? What if the boys didn’t stop? What if the boys knew? What if everyone whispered? Did I even have friends anymore? Because they’d certainly stopped calling or inviting me places.
So we silently agreed, no school except at home, online, or with tutors, and that’s how it was for years. My friends dropped away while I was still sick. Were they ever friends at all? It seemed like they forgot me quickly or maybe I forgot them, and all interactions happened through the computer, over my phone. In pictures and single-word messages or tiny emojis.
Until…I met Sara. Her handle was @sarafinahomeschool. I met her in an online homework chat. One of the few places I was allowed to go because physics was outside my mother’s realm of knowledge. Our science-related discussions turned personal and suddenly I had a friend. A real one—even if I couldn’t meet her face to face. She asked if I had a Snapchat account. I didn’t. I wasn’t allowed a phone, but we kept talking until one day she asked me to meet in person.
In. Person.
All those worries and fears were overtaken by something else. For the first time, I was filled with excitement and anticipation. I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but something was bigger than my memories of mean classmates and depression.
Loneliness.
I was lonely and Sara, with her pink hair and nose ring…she was brave—fearless, even. She lit a spark in me. One that told me I could have a life outside my home—away from my mother. I mean, why did I ever think I couldn’t? She was good. So good at making me feel capable. Strong. Liked.
We pushed too far—too fast, and got caught. And that’s how the decision was made. How I’d ultimately made it and we ended up driving through the desert across the country to live with the second Starlee Nye in the little town of Lee Vines.