Forget-Me-Not

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of suicide and self-harm, mental health, psychiatric hospitals, implied abuse, bullying.

.

.

.

.

It’s not like anyone ever knew what she was dealing with. A quiet kid, an oversized My Chemical Romance sweatshirt and baggy ripped black skinny jeans always covering her body regardless of the temperature. Her shaggy scene hair, colored blue and green and zebra-striped, always barely covering her eyes, dark makeup applied with a childish hand. Scars peeked through the rips in her jeans, and her arms, weighed down by gauze pads, appeared through her sleeves on the rare moments when she raised her hand in class to voice the wisdom buried deep within her soul. Over-ear, wired black Skullcandy headphones always rested on her head, music floating softly if you walked near her. But nobody dared. No, nobody knew what she was going through.

Not like they ever cared to ask, after all. People always looked at her with disdain, threatening glares from dagger-like eyes boring through her, always saying it was dangerous to be different. A danger to be herself. Sure, she’d gotten school shooter threats before. After all, she’d been called to the principal's office far too many times for reaching into her backpack covered in colorful, lopsided patches and pins for a little too long. Nobody saw the sadness that lay behind her eyes every time she was called a criminal. No, nobody ever cared to ask what she was going through.

But sometimes, she seemed happy. A book in her hands, ‘too advanced’ for her in sixth grade, according to teachers who discriminated against her differences, too. Always a new novel every week, with topics ranging from fantasy to science fiction to academic textbooks. She was unapologetically herself, always willing to step in and help those in need even when they wouldn’t help her, despite messages to kill herself plastered all over Myspace and on scraps of notebook paper thrown her way. Nobody saw the moment’s hesitation in her gaze as she stared at the lunchline, debating if she should buy anything with the spare change she’d picked up from the cafeteria floor. Everyone stared at her each time she counted her coins, whispers floating in the air. Nobody cared to ask if she needed help paying. No, nobody cared to ask if she was okay.

Nobody cared to follow her into the bathroom as she took her food in there after nobody let her sit at their table, stealing her right to a peaceful lunch. She’d bring her backpack in and always picked the fourth stall from the exit, close enough to the wall that nobody would think twice about that closed stall door, yet far enough away that it seemed somewhat normal. Even though everyone knew she was as far from normal as could be. I’d see the scratched gray door when I’d go in to wash my hands, blood pooling on the tile floor. My instinct was always to run over and slide shitty brown napkins and thin paper towels to her—maybe she could stop the bleeding and have a reason not to cut again—but I remained frozen in place. Stuck.

No matter what, she was determined to stay who she was, and she was determined to be herself, even if it broke her. It seemed like no amount of cruelty flung her way could outwardly shatter her, because she refused to react. A quality I wished at times I could have stolen or at least learned to possess. The truth is, I looked up to her. She was the kind of person I could only dream of becoming; the type of person to give you the clothes off her back if needed. The kind of person who would always lend a hand to another, even if they wouldn’t do the same for her. The kind of person who, wise beyond her years, was always nice because you never know what someone is going through.

And yet, I saw the terror in her eyes when her father came to pick her up early every Friday in his old beat-up red pickup, clutching her shoulder with too much force, always saying it was for a doctor’s appointment. Everyone assumed it was therapy and she wouldn’t be back on Monday, likely because she’d be sent to a psych ward forever, where she belonged. A place where they’d take her clothes and makeup and colored hair extensions and make her lose her individuality like she deserved. Someplace where her eternal scars would be marked down with clinical hands, and she’d finally become one of them. One of us. Normal.

I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to outwardly say, yes, I’m like you, and I think she should die; but the truth is, I was just as bad as all of them. I said nothing. I did nothing. I sat back and watched them throw sticks and rocks and paper wads and words like daggers at her soul and refused to step in when she called out for help. I watched her slowly fall to pieces as the weeks went by, wearing down more and more with every insult flung her way. I watched the days she showed up become less and less frequent until she disappeared altogether.

I wanted to be her friend. I wanted to be a constant for her, someone she knew she could count on, but I was scared. Scared that the rumors were right. Scared that she was a cold-blooded killer with a secret manifesto. Scared of what hanging out with the weird kid would do to my meaningless social status. Scared that everyone was right, and really she did wish the lot of us would die.

Nobody mourned her silent suicide; the way people burst into laughter when her name was announced over the loudspeaker as the latest victim of a senseless tragedy at the mere age of eleven years old was proof enough. Too young for middle school and far too young for suicide. Nobody cared about the suicide of someone who dared to be herself. Nobody cared if the stubbornly unique disappeared. Nobody cared about the death of someone who was not like us.

No, nobody knew what she was going through.

But me?

I wish I’d asked.