The Scars that Show

October 3, 2011
By Anonymous

“What do you want me to do?” my mother screamed.
I didn’t answer right away. I was too busy trying to hold back the tears, and keeping my mask on, that was threatening to break. I knew that if a single tear dropped they wouldn’t stop, but it was too late. A tear slipped down my cheek, breaking my facade. The tears probably made my face look like a waterfall. I silently yelled at myself, as I scratched my arm deeply, adding more red marks then there already were.
Why the heck didn’t I wear my sweatshirt? Oh yeah, I remember, ‘cause I’m an idiot. I was too stupid to remember to put it on after we won our volleyball game. I was too hyped on the adrenaline and excitement of winning. Not to mention I was really hot. So now I had to pay the consequences, which was talking about my recently discovered ‘problem.’ Well it was recent for her, although, it’s been going on for two years.
At first I thought she didn’t care, I mean, it’s been two days since she found out, and she hasn’t made one move to talk about it. That hurt, I guess, but right now I’d gladly take her not caring over the disappointment she was probably feeling. If only I had lied and kept up this act, we wouldn’t be dealing with this.
The Walgreen parking lot, my mother, the cars, and the town all disappeared, leaving me in the guidance counselor's room. Mrs. Verch sat across from me leaning forward, while I tried to get comfortable in the bean bags I was sitting in. I was stalling a teensy bit, yet trying to act calm when I was freaking out inside.
“Have you been cutting yourself?” she asked.
I didn’t respond, instead I looked down at my hands, that were moving nervously. Tears started to fill my eyes, but I blinked them back. I knew she’d take my silence as a confession, but I was sick of lying. I remained quiet until she spoke once again.
She confirmed my thoughts and asked to see my arm. I complied giving it to her, but not pushing up my baggy, gray sweatshirt sleeve as if trying to stall her even more. Once she pushed up the sleeve, I looked away. I was too ashamed of my arm to even glance at it. Yet, I knew how it’d look. Covered in angry, red cuts, scratches, and nail marks. Worse part was I knew my parents were next to find out.
The town came back and I was forced to face the present reality.
What do you want me to do? My mother’s question pounded inside my head. What did I want her to do? Honestly, not a thing. I wanted her to let me deal with this problem. It was my problem, I wasn’t hurting anyone... else. I didn’t want to have her worry about it, but I knew that answer wouldn’t suit her. So I stuttered out the first thing that came to my mind.
“I- I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Your support?”
Her eyebrows scrunched up, showing her confusion. “My support? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed.
I told her the truth. I didn’t know what I wanted from her, well I didn’t know what I wanted, if she wanted to participate, but I knew what I wanted myself to do. I wanted to disappear, or better yet, make this problem disappear.
I wanted to go back to two years ago when this all climaxed, maybe even go further back, when I was the peppy, annoying, mismatching tom-boy. When you were unaware of me hurting myself. When you were proud of me. Maybe I’d even stop it... find another way to release all this confusion, anger, and hurt. But it’s apart of me now, it’d always be, no matter how much I despised myself for it. It’d never go away, I could never be who I wanted to be. I don’t even know who I am!
That was probably the most disturbing thought of all. Yeah, I know every teenager has a phase where they have no idea who they are, but I was always so sure! I was still me, I know that, but now I don’t know who me is. Is me happy, sad, or angry? I didn’t know, but I will find out.
“I just need you to be there for me,” I finally said, and that was that.
That’s all I needed the rest I could handle on my own... I hope.

The author's comments:
Depression has been in my family for a while. My sister has it, my mom has it, but I was the first to get it so young. A lot of my family says it's because I'm in middle school, but it's been going on since before that. I know I'm not the only one to have this, and I know I won't be the last, but sometimes that doesn't give any comfort. For me it's really just easier to write what I feel, instead of saying it.

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