Zach

Graduating high school was a hard adjustment for me. I wanted to keep going to school, but I was scared of college. So instead, I started a job search. I didn’t get a job. It turns out that everyone wants someone who has experience. I didn’t have any.

So I had a lot of time to think, and think I did. I thought about my childhood and how I couldn’t remember it. I wondered if what Conor had done was still affecting me. I decided that it was, so I tried to remember. I wanted to know every detail so that I could work through it. Dwelling in the past, I grew more and more depressed. I started to wish that I was never born, listing things that would benefit if I hadn’t.

Zach was a youth leader at a church that one of my friends went to. I was invited to the youth group one time in the summer after 5^th grade and after that, I went every week. My friends and I terrorized poor Zach and we had so much fun with it.

A couple years later, Zach left the church that he was with at the time, so youth group stopped. As far as I know, I was the only one that kept in contact with him. I saw him every once in a while and we would catch up over a cup of coffee.

When he moved out of town to be with family, I didn’t see much of him at all. But I did text with him. Zach was always willing to listen to my ridiculous ranting and teenage meltdowns. He always took me seriously, always told me the truth, and always prayed for me. So when I needed to talk, after I graduated from high school, about what happened with my brother, I opened up to him.

We had just had coffee at Starbucks and he was driving me home. My heart was pounding. I wanted so badly to tell him. I just wanted to get it out there, get it off my chest. Finally, I told him. He was silent for what seemed like forever. Instead of taking me home, he parked in one of the university’s parking lots. After the prolonged silence, he simply said, “I’m so sorry.”

We talked about it for a while, and Zach convinced me that it was a good idea for me to tell my parents what had happened. Though I was hesitant at first, I eventually agreed that they should know. I didn’t want to hide anymore.

Two days after I told Zach, he drove back to town just to be there for me when I told my parents. We sat on the living room floor as I vaguely explained what happened with Conor. I don’t even remember their immediate response because it didn’t matter. It only mattered to me that I told them and that someone who didn’t even have to care about me came to help me through it.

Brendan and the church

Brendan had been a part of my church for as long as I could remember and he and his wife became good friends. I had told them about my struggle with cutting. They were understanding and comforting. It wasn’t long until I felt like a part of their family, going to their house for dinner, baking with their kids, going on trips with them…

Until March 8, 2009. I went to his house with a few other people for lunch. We had fun and talked and hung out. It was a good day. That night, I was really upset and considering cutting. I almost did. But I decided to call the Smith’s. I trusted them with my life.

            He quickly told me that he was coming to pick me up on the next street over so that my parents wouldn’t wake up. On the way to his house, it was almost silent as he occasionally looked over at me and asked if I was okay. When we got to his house, all of the lights were off. We went inside. I sat on the chair while he sat on the couch across from me. Still oblivious to what was going on, I stayed silent and stared down at my hands. When he sat staring at me for what seemed like hours, I finally understood. I was angry. ”It’s my fault, oh God, it’s my fault…make him stop, make it stop.” I kept repeating in my mind, but I froze. At that point, I realized that everyone was going to change. There was no rewinding.

Tears ran down my face as he began to speak, “Silence, you are a beautiful and attractive young lady. I am a man of God, but I am having extreme temptations to comfort you in the way that a man would comfort his wife.”

My heart dropped, “No, no, no! Get away from me!” The words wouldn’t come out.

“I want to comfort you”, he emphasized. “And if you feel uncomfortable at any time, you can tell me to stop,” Brendan continued, locking his legal defense. He slowly moved his hand to my left knee, careful not to make a sudden move. He continued to fix his gaze on my eyes, probably wondering if I was going to look up at him.

Reaching out his other hand, both went to my waist, “come here”, he whispered, indicating he wanted me to sit on his lap. My mind was spinning. I was aware of what was happening, but I was caught up in blaming myself for it. I opened my mouth, too afraid to look him in the eye. Even though I knew it would come out shaky and in a whisper, I stood up for myself for the first time in my life, “No.” He drew his hands back to his side and stared at me for a few minutes. “Maybe I should take you home.”

            From March to May, I pretended that nothing happened. I didn’t go to their house any more, but everything else was the same. Living in regret, I wished and prayed that it would be reversed. I wanted my second family back.

            Instead, they turned on me. Brendan approached me after worship practice at the church, “hey, can I speak to you in Pastor Fred’s office?”

            “Uh, sure…” I nervously agreed.

            I walked into Fred’s office, my stomach in knots when I found him, Brendan, and Brendan’s wife staring at me with concerned looks. I thought it was going to be some sort of intervention for cutting.

            I spoke up, “Can we do this another day? I had a really bad day.”

            They all sighed in pity as Fred spoke, “I’m so sorry.” But they didn’t let me leave.

            Fred was the first to say anything, “Well, we’re here because Brendan needs to say a few words to you, Silence.” He motioned to Brendan, “go ahead.”

            Brendan sighed, “I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about you. It’s a little bit my fault and I understand that, but you are getting in the way of my family life. I feel like I’m not a very good father and husband. I need you to step away so that I can focus on my family more.”

            Fred stepped in, “Now, Silence, I’m sure you didn’t mean to have bad intentions, but there’s obviously an issue. Do you want to say anything?”

            I shook my head as tears ran down my face. Shock and disgust built up inside of me.

            Fred prayed at the end of the meeting and when he said “amen”, I bolted. I ran out of his office, out of the church, as far as I could down that road. I bent over the gravel and heaved until I collapsed and put my face in my hands. Was it me, or did he really just blame me?

            It was about a year later that I decided to talk to Pastor Fred about it again. It was the night of AWANA, and I knew that he’d be there playing the role of back up commander. At game time, I paced in front of the sound booth in the sanctuary, not paying much attention to my team hollering at their teammate that was running around the circle to try to reach the pin in the middle before her competitors did.

            “I can do this”, I repeated to myself, being unsuccessful in convincing myself. Slowly sighing, I realized nothing would calm my wildly beating heart. Leaving my team to my partner, I sauntered off to the foyer; my palms grew sweatier as I neared my destination.

            I entered Fred’s office as he welcomed me with a smile. I resisted the urge to bolt, “I need to tell you something.”

            He motioned to the chair across from him, practically the only thing in his office that wasn’t cluttered.

            I sat as I took notice of the framed bills on his wall from different countries. It had been there for years, collecting dust along with all the other clutter on his shelves.

            Fred kept typing as he spoke, “what’s up?”

            “Did Brendan ever tell you what happened between us one night? He said some things that really upset me.” I said it bluntly, just to get it out there.

            He nodded as he said no, confusing me. “Well…” I started to say. Fred looked away from his computer, “Well, I’m sure it’s fine…how about you write down what you’re felling and I will read it and see what happens.”

            He was either clueless or didn’t care. I nodded.

            “Alright, perfect!” He slammed his fists on his desk triumphantly, as if he had just done his good deed for the day, “I’ll see you later!”

            I stood up from the chair, feeling defeated. I hurried back to my team, who was still sprinting in circles. In frustration, I slammed my hand against the wall, catching the attention of the blue team. I apologized and smiled and walked out of the church. And like everything else in my life, I ignored it. So did Fred. I didn’t write, and he didn’t ask.

            And then I got an idea. I wanted someone to listen to me. Drew had already proved that he cared. It was his job to care, right? So I texted him, “Yeah, Fred blew me off when I tried to tell him about what happened with Brendan that one night…” Quickly following that text was another, “Oops! Sorry, I meant to send that to someone else!”

            Brilliant, wasn’t it? But he didn’t text back.

            The next day, I had an appointment with Drew at the police department because I had asked if I could interview him for a class I was taking. After the interview, he asked about the text I sent him about Brendan. He asked if he could bring in a victim advocate from ASPEN, and I agreed. Her name was Cindy. I didn’t want to talk to her; I didn’t know her. Her voice was high pitched, just enough to annoy me. Her hair was in pigtails and she wore a long blue skirt. She smiled too much, but she was nice.

I told them the sugar-coated version of the story and told him about how Fred didn’t listen to me. He sighed in disbelief, “Nothing Brendan did was illegal, but it was definitely wrong. I don’t want you to ever be alone with him again, okay?” I agreed, immediately clamming up.

            I sat in silence as he wrote a few notes in his notepad. I listened as Cindy came up with a plan of action. Drew would call Fred to tell him that what I had to say was important and Cindy would come with me to tell Fred about it.

 Drew took a breath, as if to say something else. He hesitated as he looked at me with concern, “I’ve been doing this job for a long time; I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

            He was right, but I shook my head. I was embarrassed.

            As plans were made to meet with Fred and the meeting grew closer, I was getting anxious. An hour before the scheduled meeting, my phone rang, showing the number of ASPEN. I didn’t answer, afraid that she was going to cancel. I held down the voicemail button as the lady on the machine told me I had a message. Duh. My heart sank as I listened to Cindy’s coworker explain that she wouldn’t be able to make it due to a family emergency. Alone in my agony once again, my stomach churned as I ran out of the church and threw my hands in the air, giving up. In the next hour, I paced the parking lot, my stomach swelling with anxiety. If I was going to talk to Fred, it had to be then. I knew myself better: I’d back down. I was at a loss. I read the letter that I wrote to read to Fred over and over again in my head until I practically memorized it.

            As I was reading the letter for the millionth time, I heard a car pull up. My heart leapt and I looked up. Carrie, the worship leader, my friend, stepped out of her car. Sighed in relief, tearing up, and asked her to come to the meeting with me. I couldn’t do it alone.

            I filled Carrie in and she agreed to accompany me. Fred showed up a few minutes later, greeting us as he opened his door. I told him about Cindy and he apologized.

            I entered the cluttered office one again, more nervous than ever. Pulling the folded paper out of my pocket, I began to tremble. Carrie put her hand on mine, “it’s okay.”

            I gave her a weak smile as I unfolded the paper. It was slightly damp from my furiously sweating hands. I shook with intensity while my stomach flipped over and over, threatening to empty itself.

            “You have the floor. No one will speak until you are done. “Fred said to me.

            I nodded, unsure if I wanted to go through with it. I looked around at the cluttered, but welcoming office. I looked at Carrie, who smiled and said, “go ahead.”

            I took a deep breath and began to read my own heart-wrenching words.

            I told Fred that I was hurt; that I felt insignificant. I told him what really happened with Brendan and how I felt about it. I said things that I never thought that I would say.

            When I was finished, I looked up and saw the wide eyes of my pastor. He couldn’t believe it. He apologized and asked me what I wanted to see be done.

            Since I didn’t want anything to do with Brendan, Fred suggested that I write a letter to him and Fred read it to Brendan one on one. I agreed.

            Finally, I had been listened to. For once in my life, what I thought and said was significant. For once, I felt relieved of this problem.

            A week later, Fred announced that Brendan was stepping down from the worship team to work things out. I was relieved.

            For a year, I avoided him and his wife at church as if they were the plague. Then I heard some of the team members talking about how someone was going to come back. No one would tell me what was going on.

            On Thursday, June 16^th of 2011, I sat down in the conference room for the worship team meeting to start. I watched everyone file in, taking their seats. Fred, Carrie, Drew, Mike, Flo, Gina, Brendan… my heart leapt. Brendan?

            My skin felt like it was going to melt off, I was so warm. My heart raced as Fred began the meeting, “As you can tell, Brendan is back on the team. He’s had a lot of time to work things out and now he’s back with us!” Fred smiled and patted Brendan on the back. I was furious. Fred knew my history and apprehension about Brendan, and no one told me that he was coming back to the team. He shouldn’t have come back.

            After the meeting, I ran outside and leaned against the brick. Once I caught my breath, I walked away and vowed to never go back. I wrote a letter both to the worship team and the elders about why I was leaving the church for good.

Timothy

That summer, on July 22, I got a call from my mom, who was crying. I barely caught was she was saying. My uncle Timothy had died of a sudden massive heart attack at age 48. On his way to his car in the morning, he collapsed in the driveway.

            I didn’t cry. I didn’t really feel anything but regret. A few days earlier, I had been in Selah where he lived to visit my dad at work. My dad mentioned that I should stop by Uncle Timothy’s video game store to say hi. Since I didn’t want to be talked into playing a bunch of video games I wasn’t good at and I didn’t like, I didn’t go. I still regret it.

For the following few days, I watched my extended family fall apart. My cousin Justin blamed himself because he hadn’t noticed that Timothy hadn’t left the driveway. Everyone was crying, frantically trying to comfort each other. My dad and his remaining brothers told stories and cried together. I just observed. I was sad, of course, but I wanted to be the strong one.

On the Saturday following his death, my family gathered at the place where Timothy’s viewing was. My heart raced as I entered the building. My parents told me that I shouldn’t go in and see him because of what happened with Jeff. I didn’t want to. I didn’t plan to.

But I headed to the bathroom with my cousin Katie, passing the open doors. I purposefully looked away. When we passed the door again, I caught a glimpse of Timothy lying on the table and it drew me in like a magnetic pull. Unlike Jeff, my uncle looked like he was sleeping. His skin was the same dark tan as it always was. His mouth was closed, his head was shaved, he wore a Seattle Mariner’s shirt like he always did. I looked to the left side of the room, where my dad stood. I noticed his hand against Timothy’s arm, rubbing it as he whispered to him. Not wanting to invade that private moment, I looked away.

I stared at Timothy’s belly, waiting for him to take a breath. I imagined him gasping, as if he were holding his breath, and laughing at the awful joke as he walked away from the table. The punch line never came.

Timothy just laid on the table, his arms folded across his chest, his face emotionless, his lungs breathless. It was weird to see him without emotion. He was always happy, always joking around, always had a smile on his face. As minutes went by, my dad asked if I was okay. I said yes, and it was the truth. Timothy didn’t look dead. Jeff did.

The Awful Teacher

In the beginning of my sophomore year in high school, I loved all of my classes and all of my teachers. About two weeks into school, I told all of my teachers that I would be missing a whole week of classes to go on a mission trip. They were all excited for me and were happy to give me make-up work.

The most excited was Ms. Carr, my biology teacher. With bleach blond hair, orange skin, and clothes tight enough to see every wrinkle in her skin, I judged her. But she was very nice, especially when I told her about my mission trip. When she found out that I was a Christian, I was her favorite student. She said hello to me every time I passed her classroom, greeted me with a smile every period, and chatted about everyday life.

Ms. Carr informed me that an important field trip was the day after I got back from my mission trip. “You have to attend this field trip. There is make-up work, but it’s very hard.”

I nodded and explained that I might be exhausted from jet lag, but I would try to make it.

She glared, “You better make it.” I thought she was kidding.

When I got back from my trip, I was just too exhausted to go to school the next day. I planned to do the make-up work for the biology field trip. When I returned to her class, she didn’t greet me. She glared and gave a lecture to the whole class about how some of her students were too tired to go on the field trip and would be making her do extra work because of their incompetence. She kept glancing at me as she emphasized “incompetence”. I was so confused, but I brushed it off. Maybe she was having a bad day.

When I finished my make-up homework, I turned it in to Ms. Carr with a smile, “here ya go.”

She scanned it, “it’s not long enough and it has to be typed. Do it again.”

“What? I worked really hard on it and it doesn’t say that it has to be typed. And even if it did, I don’t have a computer.” I explained.

“Well it’s not good enough. Do it again. And don’t go telling your parents to talk to me; you can do your own talking.”

I left her classroom extremely confused.

Ms. Carr continued her bullying, proving to me that it wasn’t just a bad day. I stopped going to her class completely. I couldn’t handle her pointed judgments and obvious sudden hate for me.

The one day I decided to go to class was a test day. I didn’t know any of the material, so I skipped most of the questions and accepted that I was going to fail. After class, Ms. Carr pulled me aside. “I need to talk to you about something. Can you come after school to talk to me for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” I dreaded the meeting for the rest of the day.

After school, I reluctantly stepped in Ms. Carr’s classroom, dreading the conversation that was ahead. She was already in the middle of lecturing another victim with her annoying nasally voice, “and you just make sure that you are here on time for the rest of the year or we’re going to have a lot of issues.” The student nodded and glanced at me with a knowing look and walked out of the room. Ms. Carr brushed the wrinkles out of her skin tight leopard print tank top and glared at me, “good afternoon, Silence.”

I imagined this scene in a nightmare once, “hi.”

She stepped toward me and began her rant, “At least you’re her on time. You got something going for you. But you’re disrespectful, you don’t follow my rules, and you don’t care about my class. Do you know how that makes me feel?” Ms. Carr scolded.

“Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. I had done nothing wrong.

Brushing her fingers through her mullet, Ms. Carr turned to pull out a blank sheet of paper out of her printer. “Now, I want you to write out a contract. Do you know what that is?”

Duh. I nodded.

“Good. What I want you to write is that you will be in my class every day for the rest of the year and that you will be on time and that you will pay attention and that you will answer questions when I call on you. Then you will take a pen, not a pencil, and sign and date the bottom of it. Do you understand your instructions?”

“Got it.” I wanted to call her captain.

While she went on to the next victim to bully, I wrote out my contract.

            I will try my best to be in class every day for the rest of the year. I will try my best to be on time. I will try my best to pay attention and answer questions in class. You will try to understand that I am human.

            -Silence, November 2008

I dropped the contract on her desk as I started toward the door. She looked away from the other student, “Do you understand that you are legally bound to this contract?”

“Sure do.” I left before she could read it.

The next day, I skipped her class again. She was right about one thing: I didn’t care about her class or her feelings about it.

In Algebra-Trig, I was called down to the office to see the Vice Principal, Mr. Monty. Mr. Monty and I had a good relationship. He understood my shyness and I understood his love of chocolate chip cookies. I often brought him and a few other faculty members my homemade secret recipe.

Though we were on good terms, I was nervous walking to his office. There was already someone in his office I recognized. Ken Savie, probably the meanest person I knew. Mr. Monty was scowling at him as Ken smiled and skipped out of his office. Rolling his eyes, Mr. Monty shook it off and smiled at me, “come on in.”

“How are you doing?” He looked at me with concern. That was the moment I knew I was in trouble.

“Fine…” I questioned.

“Good. So…” he shuffled some papers, read something, and looked back up at me, “it looks like you’ve been absent from Ms. Carrr’s class for 13 days. What’s that about?”

“I hate her.” I was honest, to the point.

“Well, the absences are unacceptable. I’m going to have to give you a week of detention.”

My heart sunk. Detention? I’ve never had detention.

The next thing I knew, I was leaving Mr. Monty’s office with a detention slip. I hurried to the girl’s bathroom and cried.

I cried in that bathroom for an entire period as I tried to come up with a plan. I got out my phone and called my dad.

“Hi bug.” He answered.

“Hi dad. You know how I’ve been missing a lot of Carr’s class?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I got detention for it. I tried to tell Mr. Monty that I hated her, but he said there’s no way to switch classes this late in the quarter.”
            I imagined dad as a superhero as he said, “I’ll call him.”

For the first time in what seemed like weeks, I went to Ms. Carr’s class. She shot daggers at me with her eyes as I sat in my assigned seat. I had no idea what the class was learning.

Minutes after class started, the phone rang. Ms. Carr looked annoyed at the phone and made her way to it. Students talked amongst themselves as she had a short conversation.

She looked up at me, still shooting daggers, “Silence, Mr. Monty wants to see you.”

Relieved to get out of her class, I made my way to his office.

This time when I got there, no one else was there. “Come on in.”

I sat in the chair across from him, staring at his desk. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was embarrassed by my red, swollen eyes.

“Your dad called me and explained the situation.” He sighed and folded his hands over his desk, “I’m not really sure what to do here.”

He glanced behind me, “Oh! Mr. Benton!” He perked up, waving the drug and alcohol counselor in to his office. “Yeah?” Mr. Benton asked.

Mr. Monty briefly explained what was going on and asked if he would help me.

“Sure, of course.” Mr. Benton smiled at me, “come with me.”

Though I couldn’t figure out what it smelled like, Mr. Benton’s office smelled heavenly. I looked around his office as he typed. He had an outdoorsy décor and a very comfortable recliner for his students to sit in. The lights were low, only a few lamps were illuminated.

As he finished whatever he was working on, he apologized for the wait.

“Okay, I’m not the Vice Principal, so you can be really honest with me. Why aren’t you going to biology?”

I let go of my shyness momentarily, “I really do hate her. She’s awful. She talks to me like I’m three years old. During class, she’ll talk about how some people are always skipping class and never paying attention. Ever since I went on my mission trip and missed her precious biology trip, she’s been a bully to me. I don’t ever want to go back.”
            Mr. Benton just nodded and listened, thankfully ignoring the tears that still came. I wiped my face.

Like it came from the mouth of God, I heard the words, “You don’t have to go back.” The bliss continued, “Not even to get your backpack. I’ll go get it.”

Mr. Benton left me in his office as he took a short walk to Ms. Carr’s office and retrieved my backpack. I thanked him profusely.

“You’re welcome. Come back and see me sometime!”

“I will.” I said, knowing that I probably wouldn’t.

Within the next week, my schedule was rearranged. I had switched into Mr. Anderson’s class, the only other biology teacher at that time.

It was about a week later that I was passing Mr. Benton's office while he was standing outside of it. “Hey Silence!” He greeted me with a smile.

“Hi Mr. Benton.” I shyly smiled back.

“How come you haven’t come back and seen me again?”

“I don’t know.” Cause I didn’t want to.

“How about we set up a time to meet up this week.” He motioned to his office, “come on in.”

I went into his heavenly smelling office and took a whiff, “It smells so good in here.”

“Does it?” Mr. Benton sat at his chair and got into his calendar on his computer. “How’s third period on Thursday?”

“Sure. Do you just excuse me from class?”
            “Yep, I’ll take care of that. See you Thursday.”

“See ya.”

Over the next two years, I sat in Mr. Benton’s office once a week. He didn’t make me speak. He made me feel safe and comfortable. Sometimes I would go into his office and just sit there. Somehow, he knew when I just needed a break. He helped me stop cutting for a while. He was my advocate for both personal and academic problems. He was a counselor that I felt like I didn’t have to be silent with.

In 12^th grade, he transferred to a different school and I didn’t see him again.

Cut

In high school, I became more involved in my church. I was a volunteer for the multimedia team, and a leader for a kid’s group called AWANA. At first, I loved being a part of AWANA. I went every Tuesday and was excited to see the children and teach them about God.

But they started to get boisterous and they didn’t listen to me. I would do my best authoritative impression, but it didn’t work. I was frustrated…not at the kids, but at myself for not being able to handle them. I wasn’t about to yell at the kids or get the commander, so I spent the last ten minutes of that class secretly ripping my skin apart with a ballpoint pen.

            I had heard about cutting in health class of ninth grade. It was Mrs. Taylor’s class. I sat next to Colin Pringle, where we were already acquaintances and joked around. Mrs. Taylor asked us to turn our books to emotional health, “Colin, will you read the first paragraph about self-injury, please?”

            Colin read about how some teenagers, typically female, hurt themselves on purpose. Why? Because focusing on physical pain is easier than experiencing emotional pain, to get attention, as a suicidal act, to relieve tension, to be in control…

I thought it was kind of sick. But at the same time, it was fascinating. So that night at AWANA, when I tried it for the first time, it was what I would have imagined being high was like. It felt wonderful to focus on the physical pain rather than emotions I couldn’t even name. Later that night, I cut again with the end of a tape dispenser. For the next few years, a ballpoint pen was the most effective. I drew a line on my skin, pressing harder with each time I went over it. It hurt like hell, and it felt so good.

I hid it pretty well, for the most part. I told my dad, who told me to stop. I told a few friends, who asked why but didn’t say much after that. I wore long sleeve shirts year round without questions from anyone else. I thought that no one noticed.

            The cutting made me feel numb inside. There were no highs or lows, I just existed. It wasn’t long before I got used to the pain and craved more. I would cut again and again and again, trying to feel that relief. Eventually, I got sick of the nothingness I felt, so instead of using it to feel numb, I used cutting to try to feel anything at all. I just wanted to feel better.

            In March of 2008, I told a friend, Drew, about my cutting. He was the multimedia coordinator at my church at the time and also was a police officer. I knew he would know who to talk to and what to do about it, so I told him in a text. He didn’t reply.

            The next day in geometry, I got called down to the office. I always got so anxious when I was called down, imagining the worst: my parents were dead, I’m going to jail, I’m expelled, they’re finally putting me into a mental institution… I quietly left the room and when I approached the office, the school police officer was standing there. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he displayed an authoritative, but concerned look. I could see it in his eyes, he was waiting for me.

            “I’m guessing you’re Silence (that's not actually my name...)?” The police officer asked. I nodded. “I’m Officer Clayton, nice to meet you. Someone from your church has come to talk to you. Follow me to my office.” He made small talk on the short walk to his office, asking how my day was and if I was enjoying my classes. I answered politely. He led me into his office where Drew sat in his fancy work clothes and held a yellow, lined notepad. My heart slowed. It’s just Drew. Officer Clayton’s office looked like an interrogation room. The walls were bare and white. The bright florescent light above made my stomach churn as a flashback of studying the light in my brother’s room came to me.

            Drew sensed my apprehension, but for the wrong reason, “You’re not in trouble. But you sent me a text message that concerned me and I wanted to talk about it.”

            Drew had brought a therapist with him, and they talked to me about depression and cutting and convinced me to go see a counselor. As I answered questions that the therapist asked, Drew wrote down my answers.

“Do you want to kill yourself?” The therapist asked bluntly. My eyes grew wide, “no!” I could just imagine the unwanted attention that telling the truth would bring.

I hid my anger. Drew should have warned me. After the meeting, I ditched the rest of my classes. But as the day went on, I realized that what he did was only to help me. He took time out of his busy day to make sure I was okay. That’s incredible.

Jeff

When I was eleven, the fighting withered and I snatched a bedroom because Conor and my sister Anna both moved out of the house. It was a relief, but what replaced it wasn’t much better: the battle with myself. By that time, I was lost and scared and I questioned what the point of life was. It was when I was eleven that Micah, my youngest brother, came home with the news that his friend had killed himself.

Jeff and Micah were friends through the Youth Center, and that’s the only place that they spent time together. Micah suggested that he and dad go to the funeral home to view Jeff’s body. I tagged along. I didn’t know Jeff very well, but I remember that he always had his CD player in his hands and headphones on his head. He didn’t say much to anyone and no one said much to him.

In the casket, Jeff laid in a black suit with his arms across his stomach, his left hand resting on his right. His dad held his hand as he spoke to the people who came for support. Because Jeff had hung himself, they covered his neck with cheap make-up and part of his shirt collar. He was pallor; inhumanly pale. His lips were slightly parted and deep pink. Perfectly groomed, his red hair curled around his glasses temples.

Inside the casket next to him was his blue CD player that went everywhere with him, along with his headphones and a few of his favorite CD’s. There were a couple comic books, and a picture of his family.

I was horrified and sick to my stomach. Expecting his chest to move up and for his lungs to fill with air, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. His breath never came.

Over the next few weeks, I struggled to hide the fact that seeing Jeff disturbed me so much. I thought that being afraid meant that I was childish and weak and I wanted to be just the opposite. But it was just too much to bear without a single display of emotion. My dad caught on and he tried to make me talk about it. I remained silent. My parents didn’t know what to do.

Over time, the fear of death and the image of Jeff that was branded in my mind faded just a little so that I could finally, successfully hide my anguish. But it never went away. The image of the boy in the casket was wedged in my mind and though it would dull, it would never leave.

Childhood

Christmas day of 1992. That was the day I was due to take my first breath. I wasn’t born until January 4^th of 1993, ten days later. It’s been told that it was so cold that winter that I slept between my parents to absorb their body heat. On that Monday afternoon, my sister’s prayer was finally answered: a baby sister. Anna had already had three brothers and she had been praying for quite some time that God would give her a sister. And so I was born.

The earliest memory I have is of Dolores Schafer, telling me that it was okay if I needed to sit down before the ceremony was over. When I was five, I was a flower girl in a wedding for a close friend of the family, Laura Schafer. Before the ceremony, I stood next to Laura, wearing almost matching dresses. Impressively, my mom had made both of them. I shyly smiled and stood still, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

Most of the rest of my childhood is a blur, as if I was watching it as a movie in fast forward. All I have is pictures and videos and occasional blurry memories.

Most of what I do remember is my siblings fighting both with each other and with my parents. When my siblings fought with my parents, there was a lot of yelling. My dad would try to keep the peace and my mom would stand behind him and nod at whatever he had to say. Dad often yelled, but was never abusive. He would throw things across the room in anger, but he would never lay a hand on us in anger.

Between my siblings, it wasn’t like normal disagreements and occasional arguments; it was punching and scratching and pushing that got out of control way too often. Too many times, arguments ended with a trip to the emergency room to get stitches or the police rushing down the cul-de-sac. By the time I was eleven, I had seen all that my siblings could do to each other. I witnessed many holes in the walls, black eyes, cuts, bruises, my sister’s leg was bashed in by a metal bat, I watched my brother’s ride away in handcuffs…I was scared, so I never fought with them. I only watched in silence as they tore each other apart.

But at the same time as being afraid of them, I also adored my family. Without the fighting, they were a lot of fun. We played games with the neighborhood kids, like Alien in the Dark, where there would be one seeker, and everyone would hide. Once the seeker found someone, they would yell “alien in the dark!”, and the person that was spotted would have to join the seeker in the search for the rest of them. We played cops and robbers with guns made out of Legos. We built card houses, and then knocked one card at a time down until it all fell, and whoever had the most cards when the house fell, won.

When he was fourteen years old, my brother was arrested in our living room and taken to a juvenile detention center for five months. Just hours before the police knocked on our door, Conor had gone into the gas station down the road with a knife in hand and a mask over his face and demanded cigarettes. I have no idea what happened during those five months that he was gone. Conor spent his fifteenth birthday in the detention center, and that was the only time I went with my parents to visit him.

The first thing that I remember from when he came home, I was five years old, standing in the hallway next to the washer and dryer. I was staring at the banner across the kitchen entry that read “Welcome Home, Conor”. It felt weird knowing that Conor was coming home and that I had to act like nothing ever happened. But I was scared. I had always been cautious around Conor. Though I don’t remember much of it, he was the most rebellious and difficult of all of my siblings. He stole, he lied, he quit school, he fought with everyone, and he had a huge attitude. No one really knew what to do with him.

I was only five years old when it happened for the first time. Conor told me that if I went in to his bedroom and lie on his bed and let him lay on top of me, that he would give me a lollipop. The only thing I understood was that I was getting a lollipop. So I did what I was told. It hurt. I remember that it hurt really badly. So instead of being mindful of what was happening to me, I looked up at the florescent light in a rectangular box and I studied the flies that were attracted to it, studied the spider that crawled across it, studied the bumpy texture of the covering. I don’t know how many times it happened and I don’t know how long it went on. It was long enough.

Long enough for the neighborhood boys to catch on that I was easy. I was just a little girl, fooled into submission by my oldest brother. Derek, Orlando, Aaron, Chris, Ryan, John, and god knows who else…I was tossed around like a ragdoll and I could do nothing about it. The worst of it came from my brother, but the games the neighborhood boys would play were awful. We played house, where I was always the wife who was in bed. We played spin the bottle, where I was the only girl, so it landed on me every time. We played doctor, where I was the patient and they had to find out what was wrong with me.

I’m guessing the abuse from my brother stopped when he moved out of the house at eighteen years old. I was eight. I know that the abuse from the neighborhood boys didn't stop until we moved out of the neighborhood in eighth grade, when I was thirteen.