Polly

This is the first chapter in the book i'm writing... its about my life, but also inspired by the short story I wrote (Melancholy Polly).1

Blade in hand, my fingers tremble.  I bite my lip and press the cold metal to my scarred wrist.  A red droplet beads and slides off of my arm to join the ground.  Tears dribble down my cold cheek, and I exhale.  The blade falls to the floor and I do the same. Faded red hair covers my face in a tangle.  I continue to bleed water and pain, but no one hears me cry.  I’m alone… I’ll always be alone.  2

I’m sixteen, and lost within the surreal life of D. W. Daniel High School.  I feel alone and abandoned, even when surrounded by crowds of people.  My best friend, Leila, describes me as “tragic and beautiful.”  I hardly agree.  People say I have a glow about me, even on my darkest days. I still seem to brighten everyone else’s day.  I live for them: my friends and family.  I’m not selfish enough to kill myself.  In fact, I feel as if I am generous for continuing in my miserable state just so I won’t hurt anyone other than myself.3

I’m a slightly overweight girl, completely self-conscious.  I can feel everyone staring at me, sometimes they laugh.  I constantly hear my name being whispered.4

I don’t quite hate everything about myself.  I consider my emerald eyes and C cups to be my best assets.  A smile is pasted on my face day to day to fool the empty eyes surrounding me.  Whatever sanity I still have just can’t last.5

At 7am I sit up in my bed, yawning and scratching my head.  I wince as my swollen wrist brushes against the metal railing on my lofted bed.  I stare at my arm with tears in my eyes and thoughts begin to cloud my head.  I don’t want to go to school today.  It’s much safer in my bed.  I just want to fall asleep and never wake up.6

Minutes pass as I sit there, going over every excuse to stay home:  nausea, migraine, cramps, or unfinished homework?  My mother doesn’t really approve of my staying home all the time.  Since I can remember, I’ve always used up my absences each school year.  Honestly I don’t know how I got away with it all those years.  My mind searches for a reason to stand up; a reason to live for today.  My thoughts race for a few seconds until they rest upon the subject of Brad.  I just want a hug.  Lately it seems like he is the only person who can comfort me.  He loves me… even if it is “just as a friend.”7

After thinking it over, I climb down my ladder and head to the bathroom in a rush.  Now that I’ve decided to go, I have to hurry so I can see Brad.  I have to live for him.  I have to breathe for him.  Some days I just have to try to hold on, until I can feel him, see him, hear him.  Without him, I don’t think I’d be living right now.  My sister, Elli, hates Brad.  Last summer, he sort of… led me on and dropped me.  I guess I forgave him for that, but that was Elli’s first impression of him… and first impressions seem to stick.  All right, so I know he’s not all that bright, but he means well.  I trust him and he trusts me.  I guess you could say we’re best friends.  Brad and I spend a lot of time together at Charlie’s house.  Charlie is my neighbor, and when you put him and Brad together, it could be disastrous.  8

A few days ago, Charlie got expelled from school for being caught with a knife, two flasks of liquor, a lighter in the shape of a gun, and some clove cigarettes.  I felt really bad for him.  He’s not a bad kid; he’s just really stupid when it comes to common sense.  It’s strange seeing Brad without Charlie.  They were always inseparable.9

My mornings are miserable, but they’re nothing compared to my nights.  I arrive at school and head to a corner where my “group” gathers.  I feel suffocated walking through the crowded hallways, staring at the ground.  I slap on a meaningless smile to flash at all the happy people around me.  Everyone is submersed into their own pointless conversations of gossip, assignments, and the teachers that make our life a daily struggle.10

My friend, Kate, sneaks up on me, asking how I am.  I tell her I’m ok.  (It’s sort of funny how 99% of the time, I say I’m “fine,” or “great,” even when I’m on the verge of tears.)  Kate and I were best friends from kindergarten to the beginning of third grade.  We went separate ways for a few years until eighth grade when we rediscovered each other.  Her father moved to Minnesota and eventually, her parents divorced.  Throughout that time, I was her jester.  I made her laugh almost every day.  My goal was to make her forget her troubles, at least for a little while.  Her mom appreciated me.  She told my mother that she hadn’t seen Kate laugh like that in years.  It feels good to know I can affect someone like that.  But now it seems like I am the one with the problem, and I don’t even have a friend that can make me forget my misery.11

Lately my friendship with Kate has faded.  She just doesn’t really know how to deal with my self-mutilation.  During an argument, she told me, “If you feel neglected, it’s your fault.”  That left its mark.  I guess we just parted ways because of our differences.  She was finally happy, and now I was falling apart.  I know she wants to help, and maybe someday we’ll be back together, and closer than ever, but first, I have to get myself straight.12

I turn my head to the left and find that Brad is heading to our corner.  My heart is racing, and I’ve got that nervous feeling of butterflies dancing in my stomach, but in my case, they are moths and instead of dancing, they are trying to escape.13

“Hey,” escapes from my dry and cracked lips.  Brad barely looks at me.14

“Uh, hey,” he echoes.  Seeing the tears in my eyes, he gives me a hug.  I wish he would hold me for longer.  I just want to collapse in his arms and let my pain evaporate from my eyes.  But he doesn’t hold me.  He let’s go without a moment’s hesitation.  The bell rings and I find myself dreading class.  I hang back for a moment watching the faces blur as they pass by me.  Eventually I start walking towards the English hall.  I make eye contact with the souls on the opposite side of the hallway.  They only see my smile, my façade, but if they looked into my eyes, they would see my silent torture.  I keep that in mind as I continue to class.  As soon as I enter the classroom, I get chills.  Each person has another person to talk to and laugh with, but I just make my way to my desk and pull out my journal.15

Today is February18, 2004.  I’m going to Florida this weekend for my cousin’s bar mitzvah.  I’m not really looking forward to the whole family thing, but for some reason I think that’s what I need.  I haven’t done any schoolwork since the end of September, and my teachers don’t seem to have any more patience.  Right now I know Mrs. Hunt is glaring at me, thinking about what an irresponsible lazy-ass I am.  Sometimes I just want to hold out my arms, exposing my slashes and yell, “Leave me alone!”  16

I tug on the sleeves of my worn gray jacket and scan the room pretending to be interested in whatever the class is supposed to be doing.  Once again the class gets up at once to staple and turn in papers that I was also told to do.  I’m sitting here alone as everyone else scatters among the classroom, some having a chat, others asking questions.  I think it’s pretty obvious that I haven’t started the work.  17

The class settles and Mrs. Hunt starts to hand back quizzes and various other assignments.  The bundle in her hands reduces until there is nothing left.  I see her look my way and I try to put myself together.  She stops just in front of my desk, too close for comfort.18

“Polly, I don’t know why you didn’t take this quiz or do this assignment.  You were here for all the lessons.” Her voice stabs me in the chest and I scramble to find the right words.19

“Yes, I’m sorry.  I’ve been working on some of the assignments. Um… I… I’m sorry.”  I see that she’s not satisfied. My eyes fill to the brim.20

“Well, I don’t know how you are going to get through this class.  You can’t pass this class if you do not do any work.”  She gives me this look of mixed anger and disappointment and walks back to the podium in the front of the room.21

I’ve got such an urge to cut myself.  Knowing that I have a blade in my pocket reassures me.  I put my head in my hand and look the opposite way of the teacher.  I write feverishly as my eyes well up, but I hide it.  I don’t have a true close friend in this classroom.  My journal is my only true confidant.22

School-time is the slowest time ever possible; hour-long minutes in which I slowly suffocate.  I can only take so much of each class.  I constantly check the clock, which never seems to move.  My leg is an infinite earthquake.  I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t concentrate, and I’m pissed off at the teacher just for speaking!23

I pull out my agenda and scribble out a pass to the bathroom.  Without a word, I tiptoe up to my teacher and hand her the pointless book.  She doesn’t even look at me; she just initials it and goes on with her teaching.  I speed walk out of the classroom into the empty hallway.  Finally I can take a full breath.  I avoid the two or three people carrying on a conversation next to my destination.  I turn the corner into the empty bathroom.  I don’t have to pee; I just want to have a few minutes to breathe.  I stare at my enemy, the crippled reflection of the new me.  I know that I do this to myself.  I sit next to the mirror and rest my head against the wall.  How many days have I spent like this?  I begin to recall memories of the past five months:  from the first cut, to my week and a half long hospitalization, my therapy, medication, blood, tears, blades, and staples.  One memory sticks out:24

A few months ago, I was in Mrs. Hunt’s class when she called me out to ask about my essay.  The class was watching The Crucible with the lights dimmed, and I had to walk in front of them and out into the hall.  I was the center of attention for the wrong moment.25

“Polly, do you have any plans on doing that essay?  I don’t know how you are doing in the rest of your classes, but this just will not do.”  My eyes fill and I try to hold them back but as she continues, I let a few tears slide down my cheek.26

“Now I don’t want you to cry over this essay,” she said that like I was really weeping over one late assignment.  I assured her that it was not my entire problem.  I tried to keep my composure, but it seemed way too late for that.27

Mrs. Hunt seemed to search for the right thing to say.  “Alright, why don’t you go get some water and freshen up in the bathroom?  Come back to class when you’re ready.”  It seems like that is the solution that every teacher comes up with.  I felt like she was telling me, “Ok, now you go fuck off, and break down in the bathroom while I grade papers like a hard ass.”  Didn’t matter how I took it, I just nodded and turned to sprint for the bathroom.  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep from crying.28

I threw the door open and stopped at the sink.  I peeled my sleeve back, exposing the fresh wound from the night before.  It stings, but the feeling is familiar to say the least.  I turn the silver knob with a creak and I let the water rinse my pain away.  I look into the mirror, disgusted at my crying face.29

“What’s wrong with you?” I whispered to myself.  “Why can’t you just pull yourself together?”  I want to crawl into the corner and let the waterfalls drain from my bloodshot eyes.  I resist the temptation.  I look away from the mirror and wait for my sobs to cease.30

That was back in October.  The day my psychiatrist sent me unwillingly to a hospital, that in the end didn’t even accept adolescents.  I had slit my wrist the night before.  I guess it was a halfhearted suicide attempt.  I was close to going to sleep, but my impulses were uncontrollable.  I started to slice into my arm, watching as it deepened.  I decided to escape to the shower for the second time that day, which worried my parents.  They didn’t quite know what was going on though.  At that moment, I wanted to die.  I poked at a vein anxious for it to bust, but when it didn’t, I decided not to try any harder.  That was one of my lowest points, but I seem to think that there will be plenty more in the future.31

I snap out of my flashback as a freshman enters one of the stalls.  I’m no longer alone, and I can’t really stay away from French forever. Merde.  I find that I’m not the only one who wants to escape class.  A few cliques to whom I courteously wave occupy the hall.  I have arrived at the classroom door.  Only an hour left.32

Somehow I survive this torture day to day.  I feel as if I am the only person who feels the way I do.  My emotions and perceptions are bottled up until I have a moment to pour them into my journal.   There is nothing more important to me than my journal.33