6.

 

It’s Monday. School. The alarm screams at me, I’m officially late to class. Great. I think. I jiggle my locker, trying to get the stupid thing to open. Turn right, 28. Left and around, 30. Then back around, right to 25. Pull the latch, while banging on the top of the locker door, it might help a jammed locker sometimes. Apparently not today. I’m getting so pissed; I feel tears welling up in my eyes. Redial my combo, and of course no prevail. COME ON! My heart is beating frantically, my eyes squeezing away tears of rage. I hit the locker with my palms, and they slide down slowly as I hang my head. I sink into a weepy slump, surprised that nobody has come by to see me in this hysterical mess I’m in.

            I’m trying to settle down, and take a shallow, shaky breathe. No help. Hyperventilating. The pure rage surging through my veins right now is searing through my self-prescribed numbness. I hold my breath; shut my eyes- 1, 2, 3….. Breathe. I hold my breath for 48 seconds, then release slowly and loudly. I’m okay now, I think. Open my eyes. Blink away the stupid tears.

            Bethany is standing next to me.

“What are you doing?” She asks, almost in disgust, towering of my pathetic self.

“I…I can’t do it.” I just indicate my bloodshot eyes at the locker.

“I need my stuff for class, and I’m 6 minutes late!” Her eyes flash, like lightning.

“Then skip. Whatever.” No, don’t. You’re already failing…. I will listen to Bethany, I guess.

            I look at my locker once again. This locker is like my life. I try and try again, but I just can’t get through. I can’t grab my freaking History book, is what I really feel! Everything I know is like this stubborn locker. It’s just another thing I have failed at. Locker number 143. 143 ways for me to fail, that is. Then I notice something as my fingers slide down the cool metal locker. My fingers run over the piece of metal with the number on it, and I realize that I have been trying to open locker 145. A shriek of pure agony echoes in my head. Why can’t anything be right!? I stand in anger, and kick my foot against the locker, leaving a dent. Sharp, hot pain shoots from my toe up my leg. I don’t mind though. At least pain is something I can actually feel.

 

            I decided to skip. So here I am. Sitting on the toilet of this bare, fluorescent bathroom, wondering what time it is. 7 random pieces of toilet paper scattered on the puke green tiled floor. 3 flickering light bulbs on the ceiling. 5 stalls. 3 sinks. I wonder if anyone will notice that I’m not in class today. I know they will, I’m supposed to be in Mr. Clayton’s history class. I’m the main attraction; everyone will notice that I’m gone. I’m like the sea lions during their performances at the zoo. No. I am comparing myself to a sea lion. What is wrong with me?

            I hate school, and if I could I would just stop going. If I could, I might just let myself go. There’s no use in being here. I could let myself stop living. There is no point in living if there is nothing at all to live for.

            I guess my Dad would be pretty upset…but who else? Bethany of course. We’re basically the same person, she would be devastated. My relatives? I don’t think so. 26 relatives. I just counted them out. And how many would care? 0/26. What percent does that make? Good, class. 0%.  Stop thinking about this. I warn myself. If you get to close to the edge, then you might fall off.

            It’s probably almost 3^rd hour, history should be close to over. That’s always good. I hate when I think too much about things. History, my dad, my past, my feelings, anything. I always find it so hard to focus. One of my teachers asked me if I have ADD. I don’t even know what that is. She said it was “Attention Deficient Disorder.” I guess that might apply, then. I don’t know why I hate thinking about things so much, though.

            I can stand next hour, it’s just English. Ms. Poplar isn’t that bad, but I don’t think she cares about me too much. I remember around 3 weeks ago we were working on a poetry unit. The assignment was a free verse poem, which is good for me, because I can’t rhyme at all. And I don’t usually do homework, (what a waste,) but for some reason I just felt like it. The poem I turned in went like this:

            “My feelings tingle down my back like spiders crawl down a cobweb.

            I shiver in sadness, confusion, and loss.

            Why do these feelings come? I wish I knew,

            I try to figure it out, but my brain is scrambling signs,

            A satellite turned the wrong direction.

            And then comes the rain.

            The rain of apathy, drenching my soul.

            I don’t like it, but it feels better than anything else,

            A cool, numb sensation washing over my soul.

            One bullet could end it all,

            But until then, I’ll take numb over sadness.”

            She called me over to her desk, with a pinched, concerned expression on her face.

“Jill, I would like to talk to you about your poem after class today, if you could just come in after school.” I shift weight onto my other food, nervously.

“Okay?”

            After school I came in, and she looked like she had been rehearsing this, sitting at her desk, as if she were ready to attack.

 “Jill, are you having problems? Boyfriend…Friends…Family?” She waited for an answer. My brain was probing each membrane for some kind of answer, but found none.

 “There’s nothing wrong.” I said weakly. Ms. Poplar chewed on her pen and then tapped it on my poem. 

“Something is wrong, Jill. Its okay, you can tell me anything. I’m cool with stuff, its okay. Jill?” My eyes had gazed off… I was trying to decide what to do. She motions to a desk, “pull that over, and sit down. I have time.” My mind was gone, and my body pulled up a desk. Silence. 7 picture frames on her desk. 8 pencils in a cup on her desk, a cup inscribed in a cheesy “A+ Teacher!” saying. Longer silence. She sighs, squares her shoulders, and leans in to me from her desk, looking me straight in the eye.

“Okay, well…I guess I will have to talk. Jill, I know about problems…” Really. Right. “And I have had my share of pain. If you are thinking about suicide, it’s time to talk to someone.” Talking doesn’t help. “I don’t know what to say…but maybe I’ll tell you a few things, and maybe it will change your perspective on me. I’ve had a long, hard life.” Whatever. You’re 26, at the oldest. “I was adopted…and I didn’t know until I was thirteen. I found out on my birthday, that year. It shocked me. Jill, can you imagine a shock like that? Your beloved parents…were being fakes? Or at least that’s what they felt like. My parents were imposers.” Boohoo.

 Ms. Poplar takes a breath. “So…all through the next few years, I had a desperate need to how my real parents were. People want to know where they come from, right.” Not me. “I always imagined my ‘real parents’ being wealthy and fabulous. I think that’s kind of the stereotypical idea, but that’s what I thought. I just thought there was always something I was missing. So, as a 16^th birthday present, I got a blue Honda Civic, and I got what I wanted most, the answer to my questions. I got my adoption folder from the agency, with my birth parent’s names and addresses. My parents were finally letting me go out there and find my parents.”

       She folded her hands and went on. “So, I looked them up, and went on the road to find them. Well you know what happened?” She asks me, not waiting for an answer, “I got to my rich and fabulous birth parent’s place, and found out they had been in jail for 10 years.” That actually is pretty bad, I admitted to myself. “What for?” I heard myself ask, softly. She looked down and said, “Selling drugs to minors.” Then another breath for strength, saying “My long lost parents were crack heads, and I was heartbroken.”

            I get lost in her story, and I guess it is kind of sad.

 “But you know, then, it made me appreciate my parents so much more. So, basically the whole deal is: you may see something as great, but it could end up horrible. And, I guess, the opposite is true as well. I made this up for myself two days after I was crushed by the reality of my parents: The one thing you want the most may be the thing you need the least. And I just have to remind myself that everyday.”

            Ms. Poplar’s nice. I’m glad she shared that story with me. But, she still wanted to know what was wrong, and what was going on.

 “Nothing.” I try to convince myself as I tell her. She sees right through it.

 “Jill, I told you a story, so you need to tell me something.”

            I’m exhausted. So, I told her simply what I knew.

“I’m tired, okay? I just can’t take it. I don’t like school, everyone thinks I’m crazy. And, I just don’t care, okay? I’m apathetic, isn’t that a vocab word this week? I don’t know how to explain what’s wrong. I just know something isn’t right. I just don’t know what. I just….” My eyes searched for an answer. “Don’t know.” I turn my palms up in a kind of “I’m helpless” gesture.

            “Well…do you think you’re depressed?” she asks, in a sensitive way. I don’t know!

 “I don’t really know. If it runs along the lines of being sad, confused, always tired…then maybe, I guess. I don’t know.”

            I felt like someone had taken a bucket of my energy and poured it out, I was just finished. I was weak.

“I don’t really feel like talking anymore…I…yeah, I just…I’m tired.” I say, hoping this will be good enough for her. She pats my hand.

“That’s fine…and really, Jill, if you want to talk, call me, anytime.”  She slips me a number scrawled on a little piece of paper and smiles a tight smile. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for coming.”

            That was the only time I ever peeked through the hole in the barrier. I got a tiny little glimpse to the other side, but it wasn’t enough. It was draining, just talking to her, and trying to tell her how I felt. I think it’s so draining because I really have no idea how I feel. At a specific moment, 80% of the time, I could not just make a simple sentence out of my feelings. I can’t say, “I’m sad.” Or “I’m confused.” Everything seems like it’s long and tedious with me, unnecessary.

            The bell breaks me away from my memories, and I sit up from the toilet. My butt hurts from being perching on that unsanitary, oddly shaped seat for so long. I look at a clock and realize it’s been 55 minutes since I started thinking about that memory. Time zooms by so quickly in my mind. My mind is an unfamiliar old house, with many rooms and turns, hidden trap doors, and broken windows. It takes a while to get the full tour.