The Accident.

The First Attempt 17.09.2006

LAURA

I’d suspected that John had wanted to tell me something about him something that I had suspected  was going to be hard to accept. I swallowed hard. “You can tell me anything” I articulate with difficulty.

It was a month after the start of my last year of middle school, began John. I hadn’t talked to anyone as my friend since the start of school, or since primary for that matter. I had been trying to convince myself since the beginning of 2005 that being gay was alright, that it wouldn’t be that big a deal. I came out by a complete accident over a game of truth or dare in homeroom. My grades were average, my social life dead. I went to school every day, came home, worked, and cried. I had a hopeless crush on a guy who was not interested. I thought maybe dying would be the best solution, but try as I did, I couldn’t find the strength within me to kill myself. I joined Tumblr, a blogging site. I didn’t have a single follower but I didn’t want to. It was my secret diary. I looked at other people’s blogs and knew that I wasn’t alone struggling with my sexuality and bullying. I was miserable; I didn’t know what to do. My parents were completely oblivious to the fact that I could feel myself sink deeper and deeper into what was known as depression. And although I didn’t everything I could to stop myself, I couldn’t help but want to hurt myself. Always, again and again, as if I was told to, as if everyone was begging me to. I couldn’t stop myself, John was sobbing now, I reached forward to try to cheer him up, put my arm around him, tell him it was okay, that I wouldn’t tell anyone, that he could tell me. My eyes were opening in horror as his story became more and more horrid. I felt awful, but obviously not as much as he had. I felt like I just had to die, I had to. Now, I was close to finding the strength to try it. But first, I told myself, I should suffer. I should torture myself, dying would be too easy. I… I found a blade. I found it, I used it. My first cut, it was the deepest one too. Deep enough that it was bleeding. I was crying, but smiling through my tears. This pain I could control. This pain I could stop when I wanted to. I had ultimate power over it. It was so satisfying. I tortured myself like that for three months. I never wore short sleeves again; it was too personal, and I was already getting bullied enough. Then, it got worse. I started hallucinating, there’s no other word for it. I saw things, my sister telling me I was fat. The school bullies telling me to kill myself, that I wouldn’t be missed anyway. A clone of me telling me there’s nothing left here, you can do it. That did it: a clone of me was telling me to die, so be it, I would. I so badly wanted to, it was actually just the drop that made the cup overflow. So I took a walk that day. I walked over to the bridge, and I sat down on the edge. I looked out onto the river, wondering just what would happen after I was gone. I’m still thinking when I get a pat on the shoulder. Startled, I look around and there was a person I had never seen before, or thereafter – maybe a hallucination. “If you’re thinking about jumping, don’t bother. If you do, its just letting everyone who’s ever hurt you know: You got me, you won.” I lean back towards the pavement. No one is around. I swung my leg around, facing the road this time. I stood up, and walked purposefully towards the edge of the road. The shadow follows me. On one hand, it’s telling me that I can make it an “accident”, on the other, it’s telling me that I shouldn’t, begging me to stop. I’m just standing there when a teacher walks up to me “Dear, what are you doing out here? It’s absolutely pouring! Do you mind coming with me, I need to help you revise for your entrance exams remember?” And so five minutes later we are warm and dry at her house, and all thoughts of suicide had left, at least for a bit. But after that, I never could go that far again. I still cut, but… not too much. And I don’t want to die anymore.

JOHN

            Phew. That was absolutely horrifying. It was so hard to start talking, to swallow down the tears I could feel welling up inside me. After a couple of sentences, I calmed down and managed to string together enough of a storyline. It felt good, having someone who cared really and truly, listen to me like they’ve nothing else to do. Like there’s no place in the world they’d rather be than listening to you talking, right there, telling your story like you’ve never managed to before. The words pour out from my mouth like I’ve planned this long monologue for weeks. As if I had spent ages preparing the use of each word, each syllable pronounced with care. I could feel Laura becoming emotional when I started talking about how I hurt myself for the first time. About my first cut, my attempt at jumping off the bridge. By this time, I was brushing away what I was thinking now to concentrate on what I was feeling then. She didn’t judge me, rather she sat there, content to listen to what I had to say, fine to let her commentary run later, and most of all, interested in hearing what I had to say. And that felt good. It felt good to know that I was the only person she wanted to listen to in that moment. When I finished my story, I stopped talking, fumbling with my fingers, feeling awkward. Laura, on the other hand, took much less time to compose herself, and when she felt she could talk, she simply asked me if I wanted to ditch the party and grab a soda somewhere else. Nodding slowly and muttering a feeble reply, I stand up, lend her a hand to help her up. When she was standing in front of me, I lean in, and hug her, tears streaming down my cheeks, and unable to let go. She runs her fingers through my hair, and comforts me. We don’t move until she pulls me away from her, looks straight into my eyes and says You’ve got me now. I manage a small smile, and turn to face the road. Without a word, we walk down side by side, ignoring the party, ignoring the world, and a comfortable silence comes between us.

And so we became friends.