place without you in it, Lardo ,” he said, and he was no longer handsome. His eyes made me shiver, but with fear, not anticipation; his mouth was a thin line of cruelty. But worse still were the words that came out of it. “You should just do us all a favor and kill yourself.”
I woke up, my heart racing, with tears streaming down my cheeks. In the stillness, in that lonely quiet of three in the morning when no one else was awake, I cried into my pillow so my sister wouldn’t hear through the wall, and I wished once again that the pills had done their job.
And the question that I asked myself, over and over, as I tried to get back to sleep, staring at the shadows on the ceiling was: What did I do wrong?
Until I understand that, making these stupid gratitude lists is just a homework assignment in fakery, because I’m mad that I still have to wake up every day to a world where nothing makes any sense.
No way am I going to be able to come up with number three today. Linda, the therapist I see now that I’m out of the hospital, is just going to have to deal. Just like she expects me to. Just like everyone else thinks I should.
Mom knocks on the door: her attempt at pretending I have privacy. I’m not allowed to shut it anymore in case I harm myself. They’re protecting me from me.
Even when I shower I have to leave the bathroom door ajar, which is totally awkward when Dad’s home. My parents promised that when I take a shower he’s not allowed to come upstairs.
But still … the faint draft coming in from the open door reminds me that I’m not to be trusted.
Now I know how zoo animals feel, always watched, always observed, never able to escape except in their heads. Except now everyone’s trying to watch me in there, too.
“Lara, honey?”
“Yeah?”
She inches into my room and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I shove the stupid gratitude journal under the covers. No way I want Mom prying into that.
Elmo is telling kids about how great it is to share. Oh, Elmo, you poor, deluded little red fur ball. You don’t have a clue, do ya, li’l buddy? Kids are way meaner than Muppets.
“Can you turn down the TV a little?” Mom asks.
I push Mute. Elmo’s relentless optimism is starting to grate on my nerves anyway. He doesn’t get it. Wait till you hit puberty, Elmo. Just you wait.
“The police called,” Mom says. “They’re coming over in half an hour to talk to us — well, specifically to talk to you . I thought you might want to take a shower and get dressed.”
Not particularly. I’m happy to stay in my pj’s, with unwashed hair and no makeup and unbrushed teeth. Because I really don’t care. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t. But here’s the thing with Mom: When she says, “I thought you might want to …,” what she really means is I want you to … If I say what I really feel, namely that I want to remain slobby and unwashed, she’ll ask me twenty questions about why (answer: because I don’t care about how I look) and don’t I worry about the impression I’m giving the world (answer: no) and doesn’t it make me feel better to be clean (answer: nothing makes me feel better).
I wish she would come straight out and say, Go take a shower and get dressed , instead of pretending I have any say in the matter.
“What do they want to talk about?” I ask, instead of telling her that.
“They want to ask you some questions about Facebook.”
Ugh . Just what I’m trying to forget about. Just what I’d rather not think about ever again.
My father is obsessed with the subject. The other night he printed out his stupid spreadsheet for what feels like the millionth time and wanted me to look at it so I could tell him something about every single person on the list. I tore it up again without even glancing at it. He yelled at me, saying that I owed him my cooperation “after everything you’ve put this family through.” Then Mom yelled at him for yelling at me when I’m
I woke up, my heart racing, with tears streaming down my cheeks. In the stillness, in that lonely quiet of three in the morning when no one else was awake, I cried into my pillow so my sister wouldn’t hear through the wall, and I wished once again that the pills had done their job.
And the question that I asked myself, over and over, as I tried to get back to sleep, staring at the shadows on the ceiling was: What did I do wrong?
Until I understand that, making these stupid gratitude lists is just a homework assignment in fakery, because I’m mad that I still have to wake up every day to a world where nothing makes any sense.
No way am I going to be able to come up with number three today. Linda, the therapist I see now that I’m out of the hospital, is just going to have to deal. Just like she expects me to. Just like everyone else thinks I should.
Mom knocks on the door: her attempt at pretending I have privacy. I’m not allowed to shut it anymore in case I harm myself. They’re protecting me from me.
Even when I shower I have to leave the bathroom door ajar, which is totally awkward when Dad’s home. My parents promised that when I take a shower he’s not allowed to come upstairs.
But still … the faint draft coming in from the open door reminds me that I’m not to be trusted.
Now I know how zoo animals feel, always watched, always observed, never able to escape except in their heads. Except now everyone’s trying to watch me in there, too.
“Lara, honey?”
“Yeah?”
She inches into my room and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I shove the stupid gratitude journal under the covers. No way I want Mom prying into that.
Elmo is telling kids about how great it is to share. Oh, Elmo, you poor, deluded little red fur ball. You don’t have a clue, do ya, li’l buddy? Kids are way meaner than Muppets.
“Can you turn down the TV a little?” Mom asks.
I push Mute. Elmo’s relentless optimism is starting to grate on my nerves anyway. He doesn’t get it. Wait till you hit puberty, Elmo. Just you wait.
“The police called,” Mom says. “They’re coming over in half an hour to talk to us — well, specifically to talk to you . I thought you might want to take a shower and get dressed.”
Not particularly. I’m happy to stay in my pj’s, with unwashed hair and no makeup and unbrushed teeth. Because I really don’t care. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t. But here’s the thing with Mom: When she says, “I thought you might want to …,” what she really means is I want you to … If I say what I really feel, namely that I want to remain slobby and unwashed, she’ll ask me twenty questions about why (answer: because I don’t care about how I look) and don’t I worry about the impression I’m giving the world (answer: no) and doesn’t it make me feel better to be clean (answer: nothing makes me feel better).
I wish she would come straight out and say, Go take a shower and get dressed , instead of pretending I have any say in the matter.
“What do they want to talk about?” I ask, instead of telling her that.
“They want to ask you some questions about Facebook.”
Ugh . Just what I’m trying to forget about. Just what I’d rather not think about ever again.
My father is obsessed with the subject. The other night he printed out his stupid spreadsheet for what feels like the millionth time and wanted me to look at it so I could tell him something about every single person on the list. I tore it up again without even glancing at it. He yelled at me, saying that I owed him my cooperation “after everything you’ve put this family through.” Then Mom yelled at him for yelling at me when I’m
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