The tip of my finger was turning purple with a hint of blue. The rubberband had successfully cut off the circulation. I stared at it while the slight tingle began to fade to numbness.
"You could lose your finger," whispered the kid next to me.
I flipped him a choice finger and he turned his attention back to the teacher. My goal wasn't to lose my finger, but I had been playing the same game since I was a child. Boredom always led me to it, almost forcing me to do it. I would keep tightening a rubberband around the top line of my finger and watch as the tip began to expand a little before finally changing colors. I always kept the rubberband there until the tingle disintegrated in to nothing.
Truthfully, I shouldn't blame my actions on boredom. I know it's my fault. I know I am so screwed up that pain and numbness are my only reminders that I am still alive. My parents are great, for someone else, but not me. My siblings are great for my parents, but all wrong for me. I am, well, I'm not great for anyone, not even me. I'm too chubby, too depressed, too strange. My hair is too long, but I like it this way. I dyed it black about three years ago.
I think about our recent family photo and it seems so obvious. My mother, father, brother and sister all have blonde hair and blue eyes, the perfect American family, and then there's me, lurking in the background of the picture with my trademark black hair, black clothes and black finger nails. I'm not a goth or anything, I can't dig the music, but I love the way they dress, so free from the constraints of society. My therapist says I dress like I do because I'm afraid of looking normal and still not fitting in, so I am shielding myself from possible rejection. I think he's full of shit. I tell him that on a regular basis.
I'm 5'9," my one and only friend, Tom, says I'm rail thin, but I see fat staring back at me when I look in the mirror. I still have the family blue eyes because I can't get down with contacts. I don't mind hurting myself, but the idea of putting something in my eye freaks the hell out of me. I don't have any piercings or tattoos because I'm not old enough in my state to sign for myself and the idea of getting it done in someone's basement is on par with the whole contacts thing. You already know about the hair and the clothes, so I guess that's basically all there is to me. Oh wait, I forgot to tell you that I used to be extremely fat and most of my current emotional issues probably stem from that dark period in my life. My therapist says there is a direct relationship between the time I was fat and me dyeing my hair. It seems like forever ago when I was morbidly obese, but it's only been three years. I came out my mother's womb as a chubby baby and proceeded to continue to get fatter until I was thirteen. Imagine being fat in a family of people with perfect bodies. I used to hate my brother and sister because being skinny came naturally to both of them. We ate the same damn food but I was the only one who gained weight. The kids at school were relentless until sixth grade, which was when Tom came to town. Tom was my knight in shining, green sweater clad armor. He stood up for me during his first day and has been relegated to loser status along with me ever since.
Once I had a friend, I started to care about my appearance. It bothered me when Tom would sit next to me on the bus and he didn't have his own space because my fat was pressed up against him. In seventh grade I decided to make a change. I started secretly exercising in my room, doing sit-ups and push-ups and stretches, and I cut back on my intake. I tried to eat half of what I used to eat, which didn't go unnoticed by my brother and sister. They were surprisingly supportive of me. The first month was glorious as the pounds started to melt away, but then I seemed to plateau. My selective intake regimen, known to most people as an eating disorder, started out simple enough. I would eat breakfast, eat lunch and then eat dinner. I would throw up my dinner and I noticed I was starting to lose weight again. My parents commended me on my weight loss, but they didn't know my secret. The problem grew from there. Soon I was throwing up after every meal and by the time I was thirteen and a half, I was basically not eating. I avoided dinner by staying late at Tom's house, or going to the library and then telling my parents I ate while I was out. My excuses worked for a while, but my mother started to worry about me and soon they discovered that I wasn't eating anything. They were so worried about me that they sent me off to some center for people with eating disorders, hence how I met my therapist. It was awful, but it did get me to start eating again.
I came home thinking I was fully recovered. I almost made it six months before I had a relapse and my parents and therapist decided I needed to go back to the center. I'd never tell Tom, but it was his fault. I finally reached a point one day when I couldn't deny the way I felt about him. I had tried to convince myself that I loved him like a brother, but everything changed that night. We were playing a video game in his room and joking around. We started wrestling like we did all the time, but that time I couldn't help my excitement. I wanted him to kiss me and when he didn't I felt stupid for even thinking it was possible. I lost it after that. I couldn't bring myself to eat.
I've been out for a year and I have no intentions of going back. I try not to eat much, but I do eat. I was watching television the other day and I saw a special on exercise anorexia. I think that's what I have now, although I'm trying to work through it on my own without my parents or therapist sending me back to that center. I know that an eating disorder is a disease and that it will be a lifetime battle and I don't think I'll ever have a normal relationship with food again, but my parents and Tom are just relieved that I have a relationship with it.
Anyway, I returned from the center with a better understanding of my problem, but I still wasn't happy with me. No one knows, but each time I stopped starving myself, I started hurting myself more often. I think I've done pretty much everything I can think of to hurt myself. I've slammed my fingers in doors on purpose. I've tried cutting, which I still do occasionally. I burn myself on a regular basis. When I first got back the last time, I threw myself down the stairs and told my parents and the doctors I tripped. I broke my arm in that fall, but the pain was like a high to me. The sick part is that I enjoyed the rush from my broken arm so much, that now I have to convince myself on a daily basis not to take another trip down the stairs. I know something is really messed up inside me. Tom doesn't hurt himself. My brother and sister don't hurt themselves. My parents don't hurt themselves, and I'm willing to wager a boatload of cash that most of the people at my school don't intentionally hurt themselves either. The thought of how much I crave to inflict pain on myself almost brings a tear to my eye, but I avert my attention back to my now numb finger. I remove the rubberband and place it on another finger.
I can't wait until this class ends and I can spend time with Tom. Seeing Tom is the highlight of my day and the irony is that I only see Tom during lunch. He watches me like a hawk, so I always make a big show of eating. If my plate isn't full enough, he will give me some of his food. The first few times he did it I was annoyed as hell, but now it makes me feel good because I know he cares. Sometimes I purposely get a little food so he will say something about it. He says, "You need to eat more than that," and I hear, "I love you."
I know that I have loved him since the day we met, but I know he would never be attracted to someone like me. I should probably discuss this with my therapist, but we only talk about my food, control and low self-esteem issues and I go out of my way to keep him from knowing too much about what's going on with me. If he knew I purposely hurt myself, he would have my parents put me in an institution. I wish I didn't have to see him. I don't like it. He always asks too many questions.
The bell started ringing and I grabbed my books and walked to the door. I was on autopilot as I put my books in my locker and started walking to the cafeteria. A guy in front of me stopped suddenly and I bumped in to him. He turned around and said, "Watch where you're going, you freak!"
"Sorry." I walked around him and continued to the cafeteria, but my mind was no longer clear. My mind focused on my interaction with the guy in the hallway. Everyone, except Tom, treated me like shit and I took it. I cowered to the idiots at my school like they were gods and I didn't know why. The self- loathing part of me was eager to stand up for myself and gladly take the punishment, but something always held me back.
I got my lunch and sat down at my usual table, tucked in the corner. I kept my eyes focused on the table as I waited for Tom to arrive. Something smacked me on the side of my head. I heard the laughter and I looked up just in time to see the guy I walked in to in the hallway pointing at me and laughing. He had his friends around him and they were laughing as well. When I was ten, I would have cried, but I outgrew my tears years ago. I returned my gaze to the table. The group seemed satisfied because nothing else hit me. After I was sure they had all looked away, I picked up the apple that had made contact with my head and put it on my tray. I smiled as I remembered the feeling of the apple hitting me, the sudden pressure on the side of my head accompanied by a sharp pain.
"What are you smiling about?" Tom asked. My smile grew wider as he sat down across from me. He looked at my tray and shook his head. "You need to eat more than that. Is that really all you're eating?"
I examined his tray, filled with food and what appeared to be a double serving of macaroni and cheese. "Don't you get tired of asking me that?"
He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't you get tired of making me ask you? If you would put some damn food on your plate we wouldn't have this problem." He picked up his plate and I knew what was coming but I watched in mock horror as he slid half of his macaroni off of his plate and on to mine.
"I'm not going to eat that."
"You better."
"What if I eat half of it?" I always tried to bargain but he never went for it.
"No, eat all of it. It's not that much." I wanted to tell him the approximate calorie breakdown of everything on my tray and the number of hours I would have to spend in my room tonight trying to exercise it off, but I wanted to make him smile. I loved his smile. I picked up my fork and ate a few bites of macaroni. "See, it's not that bad is it?"
"I guess not." I ate a little more before he finally started to irritate me. "Must you always watch me like that? I'm eating, okay?" Sometimes he stared at me so intensely that I feared his eyes would crack through my exterior and my whole body would start to shake as I broke in to tiny pieces. I hated myself for wanting him so much. I hated knowing that wanting him made me gay. Being gay was another characteristic that distinguished me from the normal world. I would have told my therapist but I was afraid he would tell me being gay was just another manifestation of my fear of exclusion and was only serving as a self-imposed barrier between me and everyone else. He would probably tell me that I had a crush on Tom because it was my way of testing his love and I was setting him up for failure because I knew Tom would never be able to love me the way I loved him. At least that's what I always imagined my therapist would say, but I haven't had the balls to tell him much of anything. I could be wrong about Dr. Conley, my nickname for him, but I don't think I am. I stand firmly by my contention that he is full of shit.
"Are you coming to my lacrosse game tomorrow?" Tom asked. I knew he was trying to change the subject to keep me from freaking out.
"Have I been to one yet?"
"No, that's why you should come tomorrow. It's a really big game. We could go to regionals if we win." His eyes sparkled as he talked about the game he loved. The game that was his ticket to instant popularity and yet he seemed perfectly content to stay in the trenches, dare I say, the gutters with me. I knew I was holding him back. I tried to let him go freshman year, but he kept coming back like a lost puppy and after a while, I stopped bothering trying to push him away. We were juniors now and on the verge of becoming men, but he was still my friend. Half the people on his stupid lacrosse team harassed him about being friends with a loser. He told me they never gave him a hard time about it, but I knew he was lying because I heard them teasing him before.
I was probably hands down the biggest loser in my high school and I mean that. If the yearbook had a biggest loser contest, I would be the winner. They probably didn't have one because they didn't want people to have to see my face an extra time in the yearbook. Last year, the yearbook editor, Molly Kinkaid, thought it would be funny to take out my picture and replace it with a picture of a giraffe in a black wig. It was so not funny. Tom was outraged and he made a big stink about it, but nothing happened because everyone said it was an "accident." Yeah, accident my ass. How do you accidentally cut and paste a picture in to someone else's spot? That's like me accidentally putting my foot up her ass. She is a bitch and I almost hate her. I say almost because she is my chemistry lab partner and she is always so nice to me, at least to my face, but I've heard her saying shit behind my back.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well what?"
"Are you coming tomorrow or not? Everyone is going to be there."
"Oh goody."
"It won't be so bad, just focus on me the entire time and you'll be fine."
"Won't that be gay looking if I watch you the whole time?"
"Who cares? And besides that, I watch you all the time. Does that make me gay?"
"That's different."
"How?"
"You don't have a gay bone in your body."
"And you do?" My food went down the wrong pipe and I started to choke. "Are you okay?"
"It went down the wrong pipe."
"Oh." He watched me drink some water before he asked, "So are you coming?"
"No."
"I want you to be there. It would really mean a lot to me if you came. I'm finally a starter on the varsity team, we're winning, we're probably going to go to states and all I want is to look in the stands and see you sitting there."
My heart skipped a beat, "Why do you want me there so badly?" I abandoned pretending to eat.
"Because you're going to be my inspiration."
"Huh?"
"My family can't be there and you're the only person who I love enough to substitute for them. I play better when I know someone is there just for me. You know that." I rolled my eyes. "You remember what happened four games ago when my parents couldn't come."
I laughed as I thought about him barging in to my room with his hair still wet from sweat and his game gear still on. "What happened to you?"
"I played like shit, that's what happened. Oh god, it was awful. It was like I couldn't catch the ball and I couldn't do anything else right either. My passes were shaky. I tripped and fell over my own feet about three times. I'm so embarrassed. There's no way I'm going to be a starter in the next game. I'll probably be dropped down to junior varsity."
"Calm down Tom, I'm sure it couldn't have been that bad."
"It was."
"Well what the hell happened? Are you sick?"
"My parents missed the game."
"And?"
"And they're like my lucky charms or something. I started panicking when I looked over at the stands and all I saw was a bunch of strangers. I don't know what happened. I didn't feel right when I was playing. I kept looking over hoping to see at least one of them."
"Well that's your problem."
"What?"
"You weren't focused on the game."
"Shut up." He sat down next to me and I got a big whiff of his body odor. My mother would say he smelled like the outside.
"You didn't shower did you?"
He looked over at me and when he saw my smile, he said, "Shut up."
"Earth to Sam." I looked across the table and Tom was looking at me. "I won't mess with you about lunch for a whole week if you come to my game."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"Well I'll think about it."
"Okay, but I know I'll see you there."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I just made you an offer you can't refuse." He smirked.
The rest of lunch was fairly normal. I ate a little more but I didn't finish the food on my tray. Tom and I talked about the usual subjects and then it was time for us to separate again. The rest of the day was insignificant because Tom wasn't involved in it.
After school I ran for an hour around the track and then I walked home. I showered and did homework while I waited to be summoned for dinner. I was mute throughout dinner. My brother was a freshman at one of the local universities. My sister was a freshman in high school at Montville Academy. She begged my parents to send her there because of the school's basketball team, but I've convinced myself that it was because she didn't want to go to the same high school as her loser older brother. They talked about their days and reminisced about things from the past. It was always the same. I knew I didn't belong there. Once the torture called dinner ended, I went to my room to exercise off the rest of the calories I had eaten. I fell asleep around midnight.
I woke up the next morning and thought about going to Tom's game. I had tried to go to one of his games freshman year, but I was dumped in the trashcan before I made it inside. I knew his game must have meant a lot to him for him to play the food card, and all I wanted was to make him happy so I eventually decided I would go. I showered and got ready for my day. I was feeling like shit before I went down for breakfast and I needed some release. I stuck my left index finger in my open drawer and I slammed the drawer. It wasn't one of the more painful things I did to myself, but the sting usually appeased me until I could do something else. I made sure to switch up my fingers because I had a fear that I would do some serious damage if I did it to the same finger all the time and my secret would get out.
I went downstairs and had a bowl of cereal before I grabbed my bag and left for school. I happened to see Tom in the hallway and he walked up to me and gave me a hug. "What was that for?" I asked.
"You looked like you needed one." He patted me on my back and then said, "I got to get to class."
There was no incident of importance before lunch. I sat at our usual table waiting for Tom. He sat down across from me and his eyes immediately scanned my plate. "I'm coming to your game so you better not say anything about my damn tray."
"Okay." He didn't say a word as he put a piece of grilled chicken on my plate. I raised an eyebrow. "I never said I wouldn't try to feed you. I just said I wouldn't mess with you about it. You can eat it or leave it there. I won't say anything. At least not for the next week, but if you don't come to my game I'm going to start holding you down and force feeding you." He laughed.
"I already told you I'm coming to your game." I smiled.
He reached across the table and pushed my hair behind my ear. I hated exposing my face. "That's better," he said, "now smile again. I missed part of it the first time."
I moved my hair from behind my ear and looked at him. "Aren't we a little touchy feely today?"
"Aren't we always?"
I started cutting up the piece of chicken and he smiled. "So what time does your game start?" I asked.
"7:30."
"I can't believe I'm going. If I end up in the trashcan again I'm holding you personally responsible."
"If you end up in the trashcan again, I'm going to beat someone's ass."
"With whose help?"
"I can handle myself."
"I'm sure you can."
He spent the rest of lunch talking about the importance of the game and recapping the season as if I missed him telling me about it the first time. After lunch, I was a nervous wreck. I thought everyone knew I was going to the lacrosse game and they were all plotting ways to embarrass me.
I ran for an hour after school and then I went home and followed my normal routine. Dinner was different because I had to tell my parents that I was going to the lacrosse game.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" My mother asked as soon as I finished my sentence.
"It means a lot to Tom."
"Is he like your boyfriend?" my sister asked.
"Grow up," I shot across the table.
"Be normal," she shot right back.
"Honey, don't talk to your brother like that." My mother looked at me. "Do you want Charlie to go with you?"
"I have plans," he said.
"No, I don't need a babysitter. I can handle it by myself." I knew she was worried I would be bullied and she would have to come to the school and find me severely agitated and have to schedule an emergency session with Dr. Conley.
"Okay, but call me if you want me to come pick you up."
"Yes, Mom." My family went back to their four way conversation. After dinner, I went to my room and got ready for the game. I needed to calm myself down so I reached in the bottom drawer on my nightstand and pulled out the steak knife. I hated doing what I was about to do, but I needed to let out some tension. I hid the knife under my shirt as I took it to the bathroom and washed it with soap and water. I had this awful fear that I would cut myself with a dirty knife and I'd get an infection and my secret would be out. It seemed everything in my life revolved around my fear of people finding out the truth about me. I returned to my room and locked my bedroom door. I pulled down my pants and I was about to make a fresh cut on my upper thigh when I changed my mind and decided to do the usual. I put the knife back and pulled out a lighter, a cigarette and an ashtray. I didn't smoke cigarettes because I thought it was disgusting, but I guess the things I did do with the cigarettes could be considered disgusting anyway.
I light the end of the cigarette and look at my left thigh. The right thigh is for cutting, the left thigh is for burning. I occasionally stray to other parts of my body, but my thighs seem to be the best hiding place. I take the cigarette and slowly inch it towards my thigh. I feel the heat before the tip makes contact and I hear a slight sizzling sound as it burns my skin. I pull the cigarette back and decide if I should do it one more time. My body says no, but my head tells me I need it so I lower the cigarette and leave another mark. I put out the cigarette in my ashtray and carefully study the fresh burns. I know my boxers will rub against it throughout the game and remind me of what I did and on some level that knowledge makes me feel even more relaxed. I pull up my pants and rest for a while before I make sure the cigarette is out and put the materials back in the drawer.
I slipped out of the house without saying goodbye to anyone. I arrived early to the game so I sat as far back as I could. I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else and then I lowered my head in to my lap. Someone shook me, "Sam." I looked up and saw Tom. "Why are you sitting all the way back here?"
"I, um"
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up, "Come with me. I want you to sit with my father."
"I thought you said no one was coming."
"He changed his mind." I recognized the look on Tom's face and I knew he was lying.
"You tricked me." He turned and dragged me behind him down several rows.
"It was the only way I could think of to get you here."
"Why do you want me here?"
"Because there's somewhere I want to take you after the game and I knew you wouldn't go unless you were already out."
"Are you serious? I could have met you by your car or something. How could you do this to me?"
"Relax, it won't be that bad. No one's going to mess with you while my father is around."
I finally ripped my arm away. "This better be good."
"It will." I wished I could see his face because it sounded like he was smiling. We reached his father and Tom left to finish changing.
"So how are you Sam?"
"I'm fine, sir."
"I can't believe Tom finally got you to come to one of his games. He was so excited this morning."
"He was?"
"Yeah, he's been making plans all day. You guys are going to have a great time after the game."
I wanted to ask him what he meant, but people sat behind us and I didn't feel comfortable talking to him anymore.
Copyright Lustyville 2007 Please send comments to lustyville@yahoo.com and check out my other stories at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lustyville