My first real relationship had dissolved and I was alone again.
It was my sophomore year of high school. The school was small, containing only 300 students. I felt everyone's eyes on me except for Nate's. After everything I did, he couldn't look at me. Gossip spread through the narrow halls. Most of the students in our grade knew why we ended. They knew I was a cheater, and now, a cutter. The scars on my forearm were found by one of my teachers near the end of my freshman year. My father was called and was told to take me to the hospital from school. After speaking with the teacher who reported me, my father and I walked out of the school in silence. When we got outside, he looked at me in disappointment. How will this look to the rest of the family? He scolded me in Spanish. He was worried about how our extended family would look at us, how they would judge the competency of him and my mother's parenting. We went to the hospital and I was admitted for outpatient treatment. I was told by the professionals that if I was made to come back, I'd be admitted for inpatient treatment against my will. I wasn't rehabilitated. A few weeks later, I resumed cutting into my skin, but with more discretion. I began wearing fishnet arm warmers and long-sleeved sweaters at school, used red towels to wipe off the blood at home, and tried to keep my arm movements to a minimum to prevent accidental exposure to watchful eyes. I didn't want to go back to the hospital.
Cutting helped for a while. When I couldn't stand the loudness of my thoughts, it provided me with a quick and accessible way of tuning them out. Even with my fear of returning to the hospital, the disappointment, guilt, and regret became too strong to ignore. I was prescribed Zoloft during my short-lived outpatient treatment. Due to my history of self-harming behavior, they were cautious in giving me a nonlethal amount. One day, I came home fully intent on ending my life. I waited until my mother went to bed. I emptied the bottle of Zoloft in my hand, wasting no time ingesting them, and went to bed. An hour later, my body became jittery and jolted me awake. My eyesight felt like I was wearing glasses with too strong a prescription. For the next 8 hours, in 5-minute intervals, I jolted in and out of sleep. The following morning, my body was still trembling. I managed to get dressed and leave for school without my mother noticing my still drug-induced state. It wasn't until lunch time that one of my friends realized that I wasn't myself and notified a teacher. The ambulance was called, I was taken to the hospital, and was made to stay overnight. Again, I was given outpatient treatment. Again, I wasn't rehabilitated.
I grew more distant from my parents as they provided little to no emotional support. You don't want to look like you're crazy, do you? they said. After all, I was just a teen going through a breakup. They were sure that things would sort themselves out. They couldn't have known that this cycle would repeat itself for the next 9 years of my life.
Everything was unbearable. I couldn't stand the loneliness. It was time again to search for a vessel to bury my insecurities. During a weekend, I had accompanied my best friend Samuel to a small Yu-Gi-Oh tournament. When we arrived, I heard a smooth, alluring voice coming from one of the players. Wearing a dark green jacket, black hair slicked back, and medium brown skin, I was taken with him. Throughout the tournament, I caught him glancing in my direction, smiling. He was attracted to me too. It was validating. He introduced himself as Noel and we exchanged numbers, despite me still being in a relationship that began two weeks earlier. I never ended a relationship without attaching to someone else. Any time spent alone was time spent drowning. This lead to most of my partners being strangers as I never spent more than a few days getting to know them. Regardless of the relationship's fragility, obtaining the title of girlfriend ensured that my new partner would at least stay a week. A week was better than nothing. Noel and I became official. I ended my other relationship an hour later.
By now, I've had 15 partners. I disclosed that to Noel, thinking that he had a right to know. For a moment, he looked at me in disgust, like I was used and damaged goods he didn't want to touch. It appeared that I was still worth something.
Noel was 3 years older than me and a freshman in college. The difference in maturity was evident - he had a sophisticated vocabulary and a refined sense of character. I wasn't on his level and Noel used every opportunity to remind me of that. He didn't like that I wore sneakers instead of heels, always had chipped nail polish on my hands, and cursed too much. He also didn't like that I acted too "ghetto" and didn't wear dresses. With every bit of criticism, my self-esteem was forced deeper into the ground. Still, I convinced myself that I needed him. If I was able to fix these flaws, then I'd be worthy of his love - worthy of being loved at all.
Noel broke it off with me 3 months later. Through the gut-wrenching pain, I asked him why he was leaving. He replied with a cold, emotionless face. "I only dated you because you were attractive." I couldn't hold the pain in anymore. Tears burst through my face, blurring my vision until I couldn't see anymore. The skipped school days spent lying in his bed, sharing our vulnerabilities and aspirations, and the exchanges of I love you's meant nothing to him. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to tear off my skin just to feel like anything else other than this small, pitiful, unworthy thing again. I was comparable to a hand-me-down. Used and forgotten.
