I woke up to the awful sound of my alarm screeching a warning that I would soon be late to catch the “Bus to Hell” (the school bus). I moaned in silent protest in the general direction of my alarm before flinging my still limp right arm up onto my bedside vanity to turn off the horrible noise. As I went to stand up I was blinded by a horrible light. My mom had drunkenly stumbled her way into my room and turned on the over-head light. I quickly buried my face into the closest pillow.
“I AM awake mommmm...” I said sleepily.
“Well then get your backside out of bed before you’re late, I’m not driving you to school, and I doubt you’d want to deal with my wrath if you had to stay home.”
With that she stumbled out of the room carrying a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. I sighed and realized she was right. I only had 5 minutes left to get to the bus stop, or I’d have to tend to a drunk/hangover mom all day. I shivered at the mere thought of having to run back and forth between the liquor store and medicine cabinet for the injuries that she would undoubtedly inflict on me in her liquor induced rage. That in itself was enough to make me hurriedly jump out of bed and throw on some clothes and shoes and run out the door.
As soon as I closed the door I felt a pang of cold air smack me in the face as if I had just stepped into Antarctica. I quickly realized I had forgotten my jacket and my makeup. But it was too late, I saw my bus coming quite quickly down the road. I took off in a full sprint towards the road. Once on the bus I flopped into my assigned seat in the very back of the bus. I pulled out my water bottle and chugged nearly half of it in one drink. I went to look for my make-up bag, my concealer in specific. My hands fumbled around in my bag for a while before I realized that I had left it at school… Just, amazing. Without my concealer I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide my cuts and scars from everyone. Without my hoodie I wouldn’t be able to pull down an imaginary barrier to protect the memories on my wrists from everyone’s attention. I heaved a sigh and put my head down on the back of the seat in front of me and fell into a light sleep.
I felt the jerk of my bus’s brakes clamping down on the tires in just enough time to keep my bus from slamming into a parked car just inches from the front bumper of the bus. I sat up and rubbed my makeup free face. I started thinking that today was going to be a long and stressful day.
Every day I walk the halls of this tormenting school. The stares, the whispers, I notice every little thing. I guess you could call me paranoid, but I consider it observant. The days my hoodie’s sleeves aren’t covering my wrists, people’s stares linger a little too long. The days I forget to apply makeup their voices are moved to a hushed whisper as I walk by them in the all too crowded hallways.
The scars on my wrists are from the times I wasn’t so strong. The days I don’t wear makeup are the days that proceed my sleepless nights. Those sleepless nights are my worst nightmares. Those are the dreaded nights I spend on my bathroom floor, choking on the air that goes down my dry throat as my body heaves and quivers and I realize my body cannot cry another tear. Those nights my thoughts linger on every word said to me. “You’re not good enough”, “You’re an attention whore”, and “You’re fake”.
I’ve heard those phrases so many times before that’d I’ve started to believe them myself. Most people that know my past still seem to have a hard time seeing why I struggle. They don’t understand that I don’t tell them the full story. To tell them the full story would be to tell them my secrets; lately my secrets seem to be the only thing that reminds me of who I really am.
People ask me why I have my scars. They ask me why I inflict pain on myself. My response is undoubtedly the same every time. “My scars are like a history book. They show the battles I’ve won and the struggles I’ve fought. The self-inflicted pain is my way of letting all my sorrow and bottled up pain out. I’m not good at explaining my feelings, but for some reason, seeing the bubbling blood coming from the razor’s cuts makes me feel better. I can’t explain it but there’s no other feeling like it.”
I’ve found that there’s two typical reactions when I tell them my response. The ones that pity me and give me a flabbergasted look, and then the more typical reaction is them calling me an attention whore. My friends know about my battle and still ask me why I’m not moping around in the pits of depression. I answer with “I don’t whine because I’m aware people have it worse than me. And I need to be a rock for people. I have to be the person you can come to help for, even though I can’t seem to help myself.”
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As I walk down the halls I feel the lingering stares and hear the notorious low voices. People just don’t understand why I hate myself so much, and why I’d rather be anyone but myself. It’s not easy living with horrible parents, and flawless siblings that you’re ALWAYS being compared to. Especially when you go to the same school as them. Yes, I love them to death and wouldn’t trade them for the world, but it gets to me more than words can even begin to explain. The pain I feel when a guy I like asks for help getting with my sister is so unbearable sometimes. When the popular girls ask me for my brother’s number or ask if I can bring her up in a conversation is sickening. I’m tired of never being the one people like for once. I’m always the one that falls too short on everything. Looks, brains, talent, courage, absolutely every goal I set up for myself is achieved by one or all three of my siblings before I even have a glimmer of a chance to attempt it. You slowly begin to lose motivation after a while and wonder why you keep going and trying. To be honest, I’m surprised I’m still alive at this point. Life is just so unbearable that I almost always have the urge to wrap a rope or cord around my neck and jump from a chair, cutting off my airways, and dying. Clara and Brendan are so much better at everything it's exhausting to even try.
Death seems more blissful than the haunting stares I get every day from people I don’t even know. My siblings see me in the halls and try to cheer me up, but always end up worsening the problem. They don’t quite understand that they are some of the main reasons that I just want to give up. I hate always being in constant competition with them, and always coming up last. They don’t understand that they’re the exact living definition of perfection, and I’m just the opposite. I want to be like them, and not like me. With all these thoughts and all the stares still following I head to my first period class- Theatre Arts. The one place where I can pretend to be someone I'm not and get a grade for it. The one place where I would soon find I would never want to leave.
YOU ARE READING
Broken Smiles and Hidden Scars
Teen FictionThis is the chaotic story of a girl named Autumn Leann Bryant. Her mom is a crazed, abusive, alcoholic and is almost always out of a job and drunk. Her dad is rarely around. She has a sister named Clara, a brother named Brenden, and another brother...