I had been at this new school for about a month now. That girl that introduced herself to me on my first day? She's a good friend now. In fact, a few days ago, when I was having an anxiety attack, she stopped me in the hallway on my way to the bathroom and helped me calm down. No one back home had ever done that. They would just walk right past me, as I would cast my head to the floor so they wouldn't see my tear stained face. I lived like that for three years... For someone to actually approach me and talk me through my anxiety, that was new. I wasn't used to it. However, I told Emma exactly what I was thinking. Being in and out of hospitals and going through so many therapists, I've become an open book. My feelings show on my face, despite my efforts to hide them.
"Heather, what's wrong?" Emma asked, pausing in the hallway.
"It's nothing... I'm just having a hard time adjusting here. I don't know what it is that got me so upset. It's just...old memories keep flooding my mind. I can't focus," I said between sobs.
"I'm sorry, Heather," she soothed. I could tell she didn't know what to say. Instead of saying anything, she gave me a quick hug and took me to the bathroom so I could dry my eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, I was much calmer. "Thank you, Emma."
"Any time, Heather," she smiled. She was always so positive. I don't care what people say about her not being the sharpest knife in the block. She's the one person in my life that has reached out like that, besides my parents. All of my other friends back home were co-dependent on me; when they went down, the whole ship sank. For example, my friend Ella, when I was struggling with my depression and became suicidal, she would take that upon herself and also become...not well. I loved Ella, she was like a sister to me, but since I've moved, we've become distant. I missed her in a sense, but in another sense, I knew I was healthier without her around, as mean as that may sound.
Soon after I got back to class, the bell rang to dismiss us to lunch. I went to my locker, put my books in it from my previous class and grabbed my textbook, binder, calculator, and iPad for the next class. I pushed my way through the crowd to the door that led down stairs to the cafeteria. Once down there with my books on my usual table with Emma and Sara, I got into the line for the burger bar.
I heard snippets of conversations while in line. I just wanted to get my food and get back to the table, so I could eat and shut everyone out. The memories came flowing back. I couldn't push them out any longer. I got up, threw my remainer food into the trash, and went back to my seat at the lunch table, resting my head on my arms, letting the memories flow for until the end of lunch, ignoring the chatter around me.
I had written a poem. It was dark and morbid. I don't remember what the poem was, but I remember that my eighth grade teacher looked very concerned. "Heather, this would be so beautiful if it weren't so...morbid..." she sighed. She told me that she had to call my mother and tell her about the suicide note in the form of a poem.
"Don't tell her," I sobbed. "Please, dont' tell her! I don't want to worry her more than I already do!" The kind teacher gave me a hug and looked at me with pity. She left the small room and went into the main part of the nurses office, leaving me on the cot, tears streaming down my cheeks. She left me with the poem. I sat on the seat, knowing that I had hurt my parents more than ever. About what seemed like hours, my mom stalked into the room, her eyes red and blotchy, like mine.
"What were you thinking?! You scared the hell out of me! Heather, we love you so much! Why would you do this?" my mom cried, clutching me to her chest.
I couldn't say anything. My throat was dry and I felt that if I tried to speak, I would start blubbering all over again. I knew she wasn't angry, but I knew that she was definitely upset. I hated upsetting my parents, but especially my mom. What she said was said with love and concern, not anger. My mother let go of me reluctantly, her pastel down winter jacket rustling against her legs. She talked to the teacher, read the poem over and over, the tears coming faster. The nurse told her that I needed to stay home for at least twenty-hour hours and get an evaluation at Sunshine Children's Hospital, which was just down the street from me, not to mention one of the best children's psychological hospitals in the country. My mom nodded, signed me out, and took me home.
"Heather? Are you okay?" Emmett asked, tapping me on the shoulder.
I gasped, not expecting to be snapped out of the memory. I lifted my head and looked at him, wide-eyed, the anxiety from the gripping memory still lingering. "Uh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, just um...memories, I guess."
"Okay, I was just making sure..." he nodded, looking concerned. He looked as if he wanted to give me a hug, but knew that it was forbidden by the school. Instead, he smiled and gathered his things. "Twenty seconds left of lunch..."
