This Is How You Lose Yourself

no.7. barf me out

I leave at last, after Quinn recites the directions to his house. I vaguely remember leaving my bike on his front lawn this morning and I pray that any gang members didn't steal it.

I walk home, humming quietly—something I never do due to self-respect and fear for others' ears—, "'I get so emotional, baby. Every time I think of you! I get so emotional, baby! Ain't it shocking what love can do?'" This made me want to bang my head against that lamppost over there; who was I thinking of? I lean the back of my head against that same lamppost. Lyrics are flashing through my head: I remember the way that we touched. I wish I didn't like it so much! Ugh. I was fücked. I had never thought Whitney Houston was relatable, until now. Barf me out.

Relatable?

I lift up my head slightly and being it make down with a small amount of force. I wince, guess I won't be doing this again. I only wish I could knock these petty emotions right out of my head. I look to the darkening sky for the tenth time today and realize I have no idea what time it is. My mom should be working right now.

I also realize the growing awareness, that bad things usually happen around this time. Because bad people still exist and I have a hard time convincing myself I'm not one of them.

Because I've been told I'm at that age. The age where you don't know how you are or who you want to be. And you hardly know if your a good person or a trash human. And emotions because a big knot of feelings and you can't seem to untangle them, no matter how hard you try. So you end up doing things. Things you think you wanted to do but you didn't stop to think otherwise.

This is the age of rash decisions and idiotic leaps. And you lose a couple pounds to impress others because you don't know how to get your priorities straight. The world spins into a blur and your begging whoever put their finger on that glove to just stop. Because this is also the age of melodrama.

The age of suicidal tendencies and teenage angst. Where you listen to heavy metal bands and slit your wrists because you think it'll make you fit in, be cool? And you cover your true complexion with excessive powder because you're trying too hard to cover your red eyes. And you go to parties because they're thrown and you feel a need to be there. For nothing.

It seems as though we're losing hope. And I'm losing it along with them.

I'd like to reinstate that hope. Knowing only I can't make a difference. I'd like to at least help one person. Raise my hopes a little and help people because there's nothing else for me to do. If I don't know myself maybe I'll be able to figure out someone else. I couldn't put a little hope in Quinn, make him change his mind. No matter how stable of unstable he may be. No matter how glamorous this unethical idea may be. No more slitting of wrists or drug overdose or self-inflicted headshots or tear-stained suicide letters.

If this doesn't work, I swear, I've lost all hope in this world.

And I'd also be repeating myself far too many times for nothing.

***

The makeshift bandage that Quinn hand wrapped around my hands was long gone. And in its place was several small pink scars. The pain was gone now, but I knew it would hurt tomorrow.

I was worried at first. After making it to Quinn's house and avoiding whoever was inside entirely—worried if my hands would ache while I ride my bike. Now halfway to my own house, I am happy to say my hands are perfectly fine. At least, for today.