6. Teen Idle

Clearly, I was no saint at home either. But the guilt of acting out stung my soul so bad that I learned to bottle the ugliness inside me, letting it fester into shame. When I was in middle school, I was ostracized from all of my classmates and had no self-advocacy skills. One girl started the rumor that I was too nice, since she was jealous of the attention I would get in school plays for my singing. In turn, the boy I had a crush on as I was budding awkwardly into my tweens constantly made jokes about my weight, claiming that if I sat in any boy’s lap I’d be sure to break his legs. Lunch was especially miserable, since though I would’ve liked the luxury of finding a place to sit by myself, we were required to sit with our classmates as we consumed our food. I would often sit at the very edge of the table, and endure being ignored despite listening to all the conversations going on. I eventually learned to tune out the world around me, accepting that I would forever feel lonely despite being surrounded by people. If I was inspired to contribute, my crush was quick to snap back with, “Wow, I didn’t know you were capable of talking!”

When Drew heard I was getting bullied at school, they were quick to let the teachers know. Emerson would get numerous emails from the single mother about how I was the real bully in the situation since there was no way her little baby angel would engage in such atrocious behavior. Guess all those Christmas parties and Drew standing by her side in court didn’t mean anything if her sweetie pie was on the line. Of course, Drew was also notorious among the faculty at my school. In debate class, the teacher, who was often pestered for why I had gotten a B instead of an A on an assignment, decided to impersonate them by stomping around the front of the classroom while pointing a finger at me. The class erupted in laughter as I nervously chuckled along. Some other teachers were more sympathetic towards me after catching my slip-ups, telling me I was a good kid and that one day I would get out of my crazy household. Others took their frustration towards my caregivers out on me, exclaiming that I should be coming to them for help, not my them. I grew to be resentful of how I felt responsible for the sins of Drew and myself, never given a chance to explain my stance on the situation.

I hated how fragile and dependent I’d become, that I punished myself with self-harm. I had considered running away from home, but learned helplessness was so ingrained into my being that I gave up on the idea when I heard Drew’s car pull up in our driveway. How could I live on my own at thirteen years old? Plus, at home, at least I had food and a place to lay my head. Whenever I left a mark on my arm, a calmness would wash over me since I could see a physical manifestation of my stinging rage that was often overlooked. No one else had to get hurt because of me anymore. I could be the sacrificial lamb. It was at this point that I was finally able to convince Drew to take me to therapy.

“You know, all your problems would be solved if you had a stronger personality. I wouldn’t have thought that with the set of genes you were given, you’d be so defective. I guess we can’t get everything we want in life. But since I’m willing to listen to your demands, and you are so high maintenance, I’ll let you go to therapy.”

When I entered high school, I was revealed to just how common overbearing caregivers were in my community. I remembered how in the beginning of my sophomore year our high school held a family night to discuss why helicopter parenting was bad.

“You end up with these teacup children who are so brittle and will shatter even at the smallest of things. That’s why we call them teacups. Definitely not the kind of people you’d want in our society,” an administrator droned on. I immediately felt like I was a burden to the community around me and needed to hide myself from the world. It was my fault that I was so inherently weak.

By the time junior year of high school came around, everyone was scrambling to get their kid into SAT preparatory school. I was no exception, exposed to grueling eight-hour sessions six days a week. Our cohort was organized by how well we scored on practice tests each week, and everyone was dying to know if they were put in the high, middle, or low tier ranking classes. I would often have panic attacks in class and weep, unable to finish my essays or turn in my practice test on time. Many long hours were spent hiding in the bathroom bawling my eyes out while class was in session. I hated how my high school’s description of me was too painfully accurate. My protected, cozy upbringing was leaving me deeply unprepared for the real world.

By December of that year, I was whisked away to a mental institution after confessing to my therapist that I had considered plunging a kitchen knife into my chest to make the anxiety attacks stop. As I was being strapped down onto a cot, I looked over at my caregivers, their faces stoic and worried. Perhaps I had finally gotten through to them that the pressure they were putting on me was unbearable.

“Please feel better soon. I really hope that your time at the mental hospital can give you some time to get better,” Emerson reassured me. Drew was not as pleased.

“Do you really have to go? You really don’t belong with the crazies in these kinds of places. You have a loving family. I think you and your therapist are overreacting. Please, reconsider what it is you are doing, and how expensive that ambulance ride is going to be. How can you be so selfish as to consider suicide when we love you so much? Did you ever think about what would happen to me if you were gone?”

As I stared calmly at the dark ceiling of the ambulance, I felt relief as my feeble existence wrapped in academics was finally put on pause. Once I was admitted, all of my belongings were confiscated, and I was asked to lift my shirt, so they could photograph my cut-laden, scabbed-over stomach to ensure no more scars appeared during my stay.

During my short three-day holiday, I got to see what hardships existed in the world outside of my academic bubble. Some patients were drug-dealers from the streets, sustaining black eyes when they were wheeled in, while others were suicidal from severe neglect and abandonment. One patient was so frustrated that her previous suicide attempt failed, that she resorted to swallowing a wet towel hoping to suffocate herself. Luckily, the staff on duty were able to reach her in time. This is what REAL suffering looked like, I told myself, compared to my meager first world problems.

Privileges were awarded based on our behavior and attendance in sessions. If we remained open and engaging on our first day, we could eat our meals in the downstairs cafeteria instead of the classroom under supervision. Driven to be the best patient on the floor, I was quickly back to my sane-self, earning my privileges and even being recommended to serve as an example for the other patients. My desire to be seen as number one was briefly fulfilled. When I had my final meeting with the on-site psychiatrist, he told me,

“You’re a smart girl. I mean this in the best way, but I don’t want to see you in a place like this ever again. Just remember the next time you’re in a tight spot, you can probably think your way out of it.” My face was beaming since I felt special and empowered again. I was discharged later that afternoon.

I wish I could say that that was the last time I made a suicide attempt, but unfortunately, that impulse washed throughout my entire body again when my AP Chinese teacher accused me of not doing my own work.

“Do your own homework!” was scribbled in angry red letters next to neat, Chinese characters that clearly were not in my own hand-writing, despite it being mine the night before.

At that point, I was done. I wanted out of my sparkly, pristine, perfect fake life. I leaned my upper body over the railing of a balcony, like many times before in gymnastics when we were doing flips on bars. Fuck Drew that they wanted to keep me alive so badly so that they could feel better about themselves. Though I was determined to off myself once and for all, the fear of pain from the fall held me back from my impulses. It’s gonna hurt once I hit the ground. A small part of me still wanted to live after all, unwilling to endure physical suffering just to end everything.

“Don’t lean over too far, I’m afraid you will fall off!” the dance teacher at our school, whom I had never taken a class for, called out to me.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you… I was just having a really bad day.” Gotta get back into acting mode, since everything’s ALWAYS perfectly fine.

“Alright honey, how about you come to our office and we can call your family?”

At the drop of a hat, both of my caregivers arrived when they heard I had been called to the principal’s office. I was excused to go home for the rest of the day.

We had a discussion with the principal two days later. Drew and Emerson went into his office first, while I quietly doodled away as I sat, waiting in the lobby. Despite the heaviness in the atmosphere, I felt at-ease since I wasn’t scribbling at some homework with impending deadlines.

When I was called in, the principal gave me a friendly smile and gestured for me to take a seat.

“How about we do this? We can put you on half-day status for your classes as you focus on getting your mental health better. How does that sound to you?”

“Yes, thank you! I would really appreciate that,” I smiled, relieved that I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed with school.

“Alright then, I certainly hope you feel better soon.”

“Yes, thank you sir, for being so accommodating, and for considering her needs.” Both my caregivers shook the principal’s hands.

On the drive back home, I felt relieved that I had finally gotten what I wanted. I thought it was strange that my parents’ expressions were so grim.

“It’s all gonna be okay now, right? I mean, I’m still going to get through my school work, but I just need to focus on feeling better mentally, isn’t that what the principal said?”

“We were in there for so long because he was initially trying to expel you. He said that sixteen hundred people didn’t pay tuition at their school to watch someone commit suicide. We were able to convince him to give you a second chance,” Emerson explained to me as Drew stayed silent.

I grew quiet. I realized at that point that I needed to get my shit together and not take this second chance for granted.

5. Primmadonna

7. Buy the Stars