Locked Away

Chapter One

DETOX sucks. You take two lung hoots and you land yourself in a plain, boring room without real air for days. Okay, so maybe it wasn't two. But hey, weed is worlds better than alcohol. How many people accidentally get married, get into crashes, and die while high? Plus, in his case, there was absolutely no harm. I had been smart.
There wasn't a clock in the room and of course there were no windows, but I felt like it had been about an hour since the Night Manager, the Warden, and three security guards had escorted me here. Eight hours ago, everything was normal for me - well, as normal as life can be for a fifteen year old girl with anxiety and depression, adopted siblings with FASD, an alcoholic/substance-abusing boyfriend, and an increasing inability to calm down in shitty situations.
That's what had landed me here, actually; my inability to remain calm. I had arrived home late and smelling like cigarettes and weed without my chores done, which had gotten me into a lengthy fight with my mom and dad. I had finally escaped, in tears, with my collection of knives, a bottle of crushed Tylenol and Benadryl, a tick tack container of weed, and a destination in mind.
My boyfriend lived in the subdivision next to mine, about a kilometer away if I took the road. But I didn't take the road - I needed the comfort and secrecy of the trees. My fingers twitched as I hiked through the bush and I started scratching my arms with increasing intensity. I told myself that all I had to do was to get to his house. He would help me - I couldn't get more scars.
That was always the worst part of the self harm; telling the people who really cared that you'd broken the promise or the pact. I was sorry every time I did it for that reason specifically, but I couldn't stop either. In truth, I didn't want to.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Let me apologize, I do that often. Allow me to tell the story...
I was on the school bus home after a long, tiring day. I was in a bad mood for no particular reason and it was angering me - that happened a lot. Since I'd gotten off my meds, I would just all of a sudden get really mad or depressed or start feeling empty.
I hadn't wanted off my meds, but I had had a seizure and they thought the Cipralex had something to do with it. Since then, I'd realized what a fog those stupid things had me under. I'd stopped having days on end of numbness and feeling my happiness being restricted. True, I still had bad days, but I also had really good days, if I could keep the little things from getting to me. It was easier to cope sometimes, but other times I would just blow up and it would take hours to calm myself down, even if Danny or August or Jana were helping me.
My mom seemed to have given up. She didn't understand what I was going through and didn't agree with my choices at all. She thought I could just "calm down" or "just stop cutting" or "not do stupid things". But she didn't understand - I couldn't just calm down. Whether it was the anxiety or the anger taking over I wasn't sure, but to just calm down was not possible. And cutting was a coping skill. Sure, it wasn't the greatest one, but it was better than killing myself.
Danny got off the bus at my place. I started dinner and laundry but I really couldn't take it when the kids started their scheduled bickering. The two of us left and spent the day on crown land, where I felt as if no one could control me - if only it were true. We smoked over half a pack of cigarettes and almost two grams of rich weed. We ate a jar of pickles, drank a bunch of chocolate milk, and giggled like idiots. I didn't get home until about ten o'clock.
My mom was furious that I had left the kids with their 13 year old sister unsupervised and that she hadn't known where I was. We started arguing- I tried to reason with her to begin with, but as the high wore off I started yelling and pointing fingers right back at her. She, at one point, saw my wrists and demanded I show her the rest. When she saw my legs, I was sent to my room. My dad got home later and they were pissed. They said they had no idea where any of this was coming from. I showed up high after sneaking out and they "just" found out about my scars. Bullshit on that last one, by the way, because I had told them multiple times only to have it shrugged off. I was in tears, my face red and hair frazzled when they told me they were taking me to the hospital.
I complied, mostly because I was tired of fighting and distracted by wanting my high back. They said I had half an hour while they made some calls and then we'd leave. So I left. I packed up all of my blades, my smokes, my book, and my painkillers.
I started through the trees to Danny's place, but I collapsed about 300 meters from his house, overrun by sobs and gasping for air. My hands balled into fists around the moss on the ground, then digging my fingernails into my legs until they wept. I pulled out one of my pocket knives and pulled up the hem of my pants to my thigh. I started with slow drags, then got into quick, careless slashes across both legs. When I had over fifty new welts I wrapped my hand around the blade and my head dropped to my knees, tears and blood swirling together as I bawled. I had to get to Danny.
I lifted myself to my feet, my pant legs still rolled up and began trying to walk. There was a problem though, I realized as I dropped the knife. My legs were wobbly; my head was heavier, my eyes unfocusing. Suddenly I was really dizzy. I tried to use the trees to support me, but it was no use. I could see the house, but I couldn't get there. My legs gave way and I ended up sliding to the ground, my legs scraping against the rough bark of a pine tree. I screamed and then I was out.