“CHELSEA! CHELSEA! Oh my god!”

“Shut up, if only you knew and understood. You can’t tell mom or dad or else...or else… you just don’t wanna know.”

My heart stopped beating as my eyes caught a glimpse of the damage she had done to her delicate skin. Confused. Helpless. My 11-year-old self couldn’t bear to take another look at the deep cuts and blood coating her arm. I slouched in the passenger seat of her car that used to be a happy place; we would sing our hearts out and laugh together. Now, this painful memory would engulf the happy ones we once shared in the midnight black Mazda3.

Glancing in the side mirror, I saw something I knew I would never want to see again. Myself, teary and distraught. Looking closer in the mirror, I noticed my 15-year-old sister to my left in the driver’s seat; her eyes displaying a cold, empty stare, her expressionless face, so different from the misery that I reflected. Silence. What do I say? Do I keep this a secret? I can’t. I sprung my body over the armrest to embrace her tightly and felt her cold body pressed against mine. Lifeless; she didn’t hug me back.

To my surprise, this wasn’t the first time, but it also wasn’t her last. She had become an expert at hiding her scars under jackets and layers of makeup that I had never noticed. I felt pressure to help her myself because our parents didn’t know about her self-harm, and she wanted to keep it that way. She was my sister, my best friend, and I couldn’t let that special bond between us crumble to pieces.

She was 16, and I was 12 when mom and dad found out. Surprisingly, they weren’t mad that we had kept this secret from them, but of course, they wanted to help. Chelsea didn’t want that.

After Chelsea had left for college, I am proud to say that I was her shoulder to cry on through many sleepless nights that consisted of breakdowns and anxiety attacks, but ended with warm cuddles, singing along with John Mayer, and snacking on the Almond Joy’s she secretly hid in her wooden nightstand. Her first tattoo was just one word, Enough, placed right on top of the scars that had been mocking her for so long. She has had enough.
Christmas came around, after her first semester in college, and my best friend was finally home for a month. Chelsea, a strong woman, was doing much better. Or so I thought.

“Ring. Ring. Ring. You have reached the voicemail box of…”

No answer. My heart raced because she always answered my phone calls. Flying down my stairs and sprinting down the hall to grab my keys, I knew something wasn’t right. I drove, for what seemed like hours, to where I thought I might find her. Arriving at her boyfriend’s house, I immediately saw her car. This can’t be happening. I let myself inside the house and bolted up the stairs to where I heard commotion. I flung the door open and saw my sister in the fetal position, bawling her eyes out.  Ryley, her boyfriend, was hovering in the corner, panicking. Is she breathing? She’s breathing. Thank god. Immediately, I inched myself as close to her as I could get, comforting her like I always had. We laid on the hard ground for what seemed like hours. Hysterical crying turned into silence, silence turned into talking, and talking turned in laughing. This was how I remember my sister.
After that incidence, I realized I had to be the support my sister needed, to turn herself around in bad situations. She found comfort in me, knowing I was her “safe place.” Through my years in high school, I have been that backbone of support, or the shoulder to cry on for many of my close friends who have suffered from depression and anxiety just like Chelsea. I feel satisfied knowing I have taken part in the emotional growth of not only my sister, but of those who needed it the most when they thought they couldn’t push through.