Survivor

Survivor

The woman was tall and slim, she smiled kindly at me and crossed over to the table where I was sitting. She sat across from me, the smile never leaving her face, and reached into her bag to pull out a single sheet of paper. She put it between us and I sighed.

"So that's what this is about." I muttered picking up the paper and giving the photocopied words a once over before setting it back down.

"Why don't you tell me about this essay Cassie." The woman invited, looking every part the interested teacher she wanted me to believe that she was. I rolled my eyes.

"You've read it," I sassed, "I think it speaks for itself." The woman's smile flattered for a tenth of a second and I tried not to smirk. I failed. She pressed on.

"Well actually I haven't read it yet, not all of it, would you be so kind as to read it for me?" She slid the paper closer to me. I picked it up and leaned back against my chair again, letting my eyes skim over the page. The woman's smile tightened and she added, "Out loud please."

I let my eyes go innocently wide at the clarification as though it was some sort of surprise before nodding. My eyes found the top of the page again and I opened my mouth but the whisper that I spoke in was almost comical. An elephant couldn't have heard me let alone the woman across from me. The edges of her smile dipped down slightly, a victory for me.

"Perhaps a little louder dear," she suggested, managing a normal tone. I decided to give in before she called the principal. Clearing my throat I began.

"When I look back on it I realize that it probably started in sixth grade. That was the year that I started really changing. Every night in the sixth grade I used to make myself cry by saying horrible things about myself to myself. I would yell in my mind about how stupid I was, and how I should just go die, that everything would be better if I hadn't have done this or that, if I hadn't of existed. I almost became like a twisted bedtime ritual, brush your teeth, turn off the lights, make yourself cry until you can't cry anymore." I said this part with venom which did not go unnoticed by the woman. I continued anyway.

"I didn't realize at the time just how dangerous a game I was playing, I didn't realize what those words were doing to myself confidence. I wonder now what would have happened if I had realized, what would have happened if I had stopped then. It didn't stop then of course, it didn't stop for another year until I was in grade seven. That was the year that I discovered poetry and writing." I hesitated because the next paragraph was likely what had gotten my here but one look at the woman's face, she'd dropped the smile, told me that I wasn't getting out of here anytime soon. I kept reading.

"I remember writing my first poem there and knowing that I liked the looks people gave me, the compliments on how I did. For the first time I realized that I liked doing something right. That summer I spent most of my time writing and it quickly escalated in content. I remember writing stories about girls my age, always my age, who had names like Cassie and Maria which were very similar to mine. I remember the horrors I put these girls through, I remember rape, and cutting, and the death of their parents. I remember abuse, and depression, and suicide. I had never, ever experienced any of these things before, I had never touched myself with a blade or a match, I had both parents together who loved me, and the picture perfect life. Maybe that's what drew me in, the unknown." Was it the unknown? Was that really all it had taken to send me spiraling?

"I thought my writing was acceptable, I thought that it was okay but when I look back I can't help but marvel at how stupid I was. Twelve year old girls carving insults into their flesh was never going to be okay, no matter how much family fluff and reassurances that life was worth living I added afterwards. But of course I couldn't realize that on my own." Everything would have been so much better if I had, everything would have been so much easier.

"I suppose that around that time is when the depression began, I would cry for no apparent reason, duck my head in school, act differently around my family, I still can't believe I didn't notice. I was terrified of my parents and what they'd say if I cut so I never did, not once, but I did cause myself pain. I used to bite my wrist so hard that it would take a day before the mark went away and I used to love the pain, the skin between my teeth, the burning feeling." My jaw ached slightly in a way that I knew meant it wanted to clamp down on my flesh but I pushed it back, ignored it like I'd gotten better at doing.

"Admittedly sometimes I still do. I can admit now that I was spiraling, I could see suicide as an answer to everything and anything though I like to believe I would never have actually killed myself things could have happened. Thankfully the furthest things ever went was a belt around my neck and a few letters. I could never take it further." I still can't believe that it went that far, that I even considered it an option. How had I not seen how sick I was?

"What finally stopped everything was a short story I'd submitted in English. A tragic account of a girl's last thoughts before killing herself with a tessen, a bladed fan. I called it Bloody Orchid after the flower that was watered with her blood. It was a stupid move on my part to submit it and expect nothing to happen." That was pretty stupid yeah.

"What did happen is my teacher showed the story to my parents at the next parent teacher and my parents confronted me about it when they got home. That was one of the most emotionally testing night for me ever. Seeing my mother cry because she was scared of what I'd written will forever haunt me." I can still feel the shock I felt when the tears fell. She was afraid of me, afraid for me, and afraid of who I had become.

"For the first time I heard my father read my writing out loud in all it's gory detail and I felt ashamed that they had had to see it. But I didn't apologize that night, I couldn't apologize for something I was still so proud of and that made me sick. But I couldn't say suicide out loud anymore." I still can't, it feels wrong now.

"The next couple of days were tension filled to say the least. A good example of the period would be when my parents asked why I kept grasping at my arm, dragging my nails across it. When I told them it anchored me to reality they asked me it there was somewhere else I could go. I stopped talking after that because I realized they didn't understand and because they didn't understand there was absolutely nothing I could do that would explain it to them." It hurt so much when they asked that. My mother looked so concerned and my heart broke because she honestly thought that I was crazy, that I lived in multiple realities.

"That was my life for the next couple of months. I deleted a lot of stories in that time, regretted most of them, but I slowly realized what had been going on with me and worked to change it. I didn't stop writing because that was a part of me now, but I promised to stop crying, to stop hurting myself emotionally and physically. I haven't completely managed to do that. It's a year later and I'm still tracking my relapses, monitoring my inner monologue, but I might be getting better." I am getting better, it's been almost a month since I've last bitten.

"I used to think that I was lucky, I got out before anything was too serious, I managed to pull myself out. Out of what exactly I wasn't sure. I didn't know if what I had was really depression or a phase, a cry for attention maybe. I didn't know if it was right to try and compare my experiences to those who had suffered more than me. For a long time I didn't think it was, but then I went to camp." For the first time since I'd started reading my essay a smile worked it's way onto my face. Camp was a good memory in a sea of bad ones.

"At camp I met an amazing girl who became my best friend while I was there. She trusted me with her problems, and her fears because she knew I would understand them. I did understand and on the last night she gave me her knife because I had convinced her the she didn't want to hurt herself, that will forever remain my greatest accomplishment." It always will be.

"She helped me too though even if she didn't know it, she helped me to realize that it's not the severity of the depression or if your self harm leaves scars that classify you as a survivor. It's if you can look another girl or boy in the eye afterwards and tell them that you were them, a year ago, six months ago, or even a week ago, and tell them that demons don't always win. I wasn't the most serious case, but I am still a survivor." I finished reading the essay but I didn't look up just yet. My eyes lingered on the final word until the woman cleared her throat and I had to look up.

"Cassie," her eyes are gentler and her expression is kinder, "can you explain to me the inspiration for this story?" She asks, her tone indicating her belief that if she didn't talk quietly and kindly I may very well fall apart.

"The past two years of my life." I answered bluntly, not liking the way that she'd phrased the question. This essay was a story yes but it was my story, it wasn't a work of fiction it was real. The mood in the room grew somber with my answer and the woman nodded, her expression serious.

"Okay. Now I'm going to ask you something Cassie and I need you to be very honest with me. Are you suicidal?" Ah, there it is. The question my parents had asked me, the question all my teachers had wondered about, and the question I asked myself from time to time as well. This essay was my answer to myself. I took a deep breath before answering the woman, standing as I did so.

"Ma'am there was a time when I wouldn't know how to answer that question because I didn't know the answer myself but this essay has helped me to figure out what I am and no, it's not suicidal." The woman nodded standing up as well.

"I see, then if I may, what are you Cassie?" I smiled, and actual smile not a smirk.

"I'm a survivor ma'am."