The clock reads 3:45am. If I fall asleep right now, I’ll have three hours of sleep. More than last night. I will my eyes to close and count down from 100. At 36 I peak. 3:47. At 0 I open my eyes again and fix my stare to the ceiling, watching the shadows change and fade until my alarm buzzes at 6:45 exactly.
Yes Mom. No. Yes. Almost. Finished it last week. I know. I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. Okay. Goodnight...my insides hurt.
I sit in the back seat and laugh along with them. My friends sip on their fruit juices and flavored teas and ask my how drinking coffee all day doesn’t give me the shakes. I tell them a half truth. This time it’s that I have a high caffeine tolerance and it keeps me from sleeping through Calculous. They laugh and roll their eyes. I don’t tell them that coffee never gives me the shakes. I don’t tell them that it keeps the shakes away.
Not again not again not again. Tears stream out of my eyes as the small amount of dinner I managed to choke down last night is emptied into the toilet. I press my cheek to the cool seat and let the shudders I’ve been holding in roll through my body. The tears fall down my face for a while. Time to flush the toilet, brush my teeth, and finish getting ready for school.
I stretch my hands. My fingers hurt. The tips of them are red and raw, my nails and cuticles bitten to nubs. A scab opens and a little droplet of blood falls to the desk. I put the finger in my mouth to staunch the bleeding. The pain doesn’t bother me all that much anymore.
The train is coming closer. Louder. Brighter. A smile spreads across my face. The train is right in front of me. I feel free. No. No, wait. My eyes open and I’m in bed. At least I slept. I look in the mirror. There are dark bags under my eyes. I feel heavy and tired. The clock reads 4:13am. I open my Calc book and attempt that problem one last time.
I hate field trips. Too many people. Too much noise. Stop singing. Stop yelling. Shut up shut up shut up. My earbuds go in, but the volume won’t go any louder and she’s still talking at me. Shut up can’t breathe can’t breathe stay calm don’t scream. Don’t touch me don’t touch me DON’T TOUCH ME.
Today is good. Mom left early. I drink my coffee and pack up my books in the quiet house. I open the windows on the drive to school. I’ve got a Bio test today but I’m not too worried. I studied. I always study. The halls are empty when I get to school. I’m very early. I sit in the library an open a book. The sounds of rustling paper and quiet steps fold in around me. Some days are good.
It’s the middle of the day. I should go back to school, but after lunch I couldn’t make myself. I look at the people walking past the window of the shop I’m in. children with their mothers, couples holding hands, some even walking alone; all with a light in their eyes and most with a smile on their faces. This should make me happy. I should smile at the little boy who waves at me through the window. I don’t. I can’t.
Nights are hard. Especially when I can’t sleep. When I do though, the mornings are the worst. The sunlight only reminds me of everything that is required of me. I close my eyes. I want to keep them closed, roll back over, and retreat into oblivion. I want to stay there. I want to live there. I can’t. So I wake up, and I use every ounce of courage I have left to get out of bed.
A C+. Above average. Below expectations. I can feel the concerned look she is giving me, but I keep my gaze on the paper. She moves on. I wonder how she would look at me if she knew this is my highest grade.
Mom. Its okay. Mom. Stop. I understand. I know. I’m sorry okay? I’m just…sorry.
I pick idly at my lunch. No, I’m okay. I’m not hungry. She goes back to her own lunch. Probably thinks I’m dieting. I wish I was. I wish food held any real appeal still. I wish I had to work at not eating too much. I wish I was hungry.
I can’t hear him anymore. My focus is centered on the world map behind him. the one I used to stare at all class long, daydreaming about foreign and far-away places. I know I should at least attempt to pay attention to what he is saying especially since the only reason I’m here, sitting beside my mom, is because of my failing grade. I can’t register his rolling baritone over the silence in my head. The silence is al I can focus on. Never before had I looked at the map and felt silence. My head used to be filled with laughing and chattering of Parisian cafes, punk music from an underground British club, a sultry Latino voice singing lullabies to passersby. Now there was nothing; just a gaping silence.
The moon I so big and so bright, brighter than I’ve ever seen before. I’m on a ledge high above the city streets teeming with life below. I edge a sneaker closer to the open air lying in front of me. a horn sounds. I love the city from this angle. No close ups, just a huge mass of pulsating, glowing, amazing life. I dangle one foot over the edge. I smile. With a leap, the other follows and I’m falling. I’m flying. I’m weightless. I’m free. A book is slammed closed on the desk next to me. I’m still in French. My heart feels heady. The bell rings and I gather my things. On to the next.
No guys. Its okay. I’ve got so much homework. Go ahead. I’m fine.
I can’t go out today. My mom’s got me doing a ton of cleaning and stuff at the house. Nah, its okay. I’ll see you later. Bye.
I feel sick, Mom. I can’t go to school today. I know. I’ll get it made up. Okay. Bye.
No guys I’m fine. Just a stomach bug. I’ll be back soon. I know its been a few days but I’ll be fine. Yeah. Thanks for calling. Bye.
No mom. I can’t go back yet. I still don’t feel well.
Yeah. Uh huh. I’ll be back soon. Okay. Bye.
NO MOM. I can’t go back! LEAVE ME ALONE.
*Ring Ring*
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*Ring Ring*
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*Ring Ring*
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*Ring Ring*
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go away mom. leave me alone. okay okay. i’ll go. i’m getting up. fine.
I can’t go in. I can’t go in. I won’t go in. I won’t do it. I drive away. I’m not going to school. I’m not. I park a block away. I have to go back. I go back. I go inside. Okay. Okay.
My whole body aches with the effort it takes to get up from the chair. I take my place at the table and stare down at my plate. I nibble at the food, but bile rises in my throat. I sit and sip the water in my glass. My mom says something. I ignore her. I haven’t said much in a while. Maybe she’ll leave soon. I just want to go to bed. Everything hurts.
I don’t remember any of this. Doesn’t matter. I turn in the quiz. I never even picked up my pencil.
I dropped a book. That’s all. I just dropped a book. The fall caused the already weathered spine to crack and three pages fell out. Three. F------. Pages. And I lost it. I don’t remember the rest. They told me I tore the book apart. Picked it up and tore pulled out the pages, ripped them up. When my mom found me, she said I was lying on the bathroom floor shaking and crying. She said I was scratching at my arms; slowly, steadily, tearing at the tender flesh. They told me I’ll have scars. She called an ambulance and they had to sedate me so I would stop hurting myself. I was brought here for “observation.” So now I sit in a hospital bed, picking at the scabs on my fingers.
She slept soundly, for the first time in a long time, thanks to the sedative slowly dripping through her IV. While she slept her mother and a tall, serious looking man stood outside the room speaking in hushed tones. Her mother’s eyes were red.
“I don’t understand”
“Ma’am, we thing your daughter has suffered from a pretty severe anxiety attack.”
“MY daughter? You can’t be serious.”
“I take it this hasn’t happened before.”
“Never.”
“These things don’t just happen out of the blue. Has she been acting strangely? Has she been unusually distant or moody?”
“For a while she was refusing to go to school, but that’s normal for kid, you know? Not wanting to go to school. I sent her back eventually of course.”
“Anything else?”
“She hasn’t been talking to me. Sleeping all day, spending all her time alone in her room, but I figured it was just some sort of rebellion, a phase. She’d come down to dinner and just stare at her food, wouldn’t eat, but dieting was very popular when I was young so I thought maybe she was just doing that.”
. . .
“Ma’am, it seems to me that your daughter is suffering from clinical anxiety and depression. I can’t make any definitive diagnosis without a proper evaluation, but the I’ve seen these signs a hundred times. Sadly, these disorders are becoming very common among her generation.”
“Depression? No, she would have said something…she would have told me something was wrong…it was just a phase…I never thought…”
“Ma’am?”
“I never thought…”