Notes from my Black
I’m not sure how to start this, but Junior High was hard on me. I survived… I survived two suicide attempts that I would consider legit, could have gone either way, types. I also started cutting then. Luckily the cutting stopped after 8th grade.
My sister sent me some boxes of old memorabilia recent. One of the boxes was torn from shipping on a corner and I could see a few things. I waited almost a month to open them. Tonight I opened that torn box. Inside were some T-shirt’s from teams and clubs I had been a part of amongst other various things like pinewood derby cars… and other stuff from around that time.
The red and white banded wrist bands stopped me for a minute. I picked in up and turned it in my hand. It was smallish. I guess I’d expected it to grow along with me, since it was such a part of me. I turned it inside out and revealed the pocket I’d cut in it to hide my razor blade. This was the one I wore on my left arm. I didn’t see blood spots… but then again my mom was really good at cleaning things like blood from my clothes and shower.
I’m not sure I’ll tell anyone about this memory. It has me in a weird mental place. It was long ago and I’ve long since moved past it, but I also didn’t used to have part of the memory here with me.
Along with the other items from this time, was my 8th grade yearbook. As you would expect, I opened it up to see my young likeness. I wasn’t surprised that I had marketed myself to oblivion. It would be impossible to tell anything from the image. On the last page, the inside over, was a written note I remember well. A girl I semi- crushed on wrote me that note… it sits alone on the page. These words have somehow remained in echo in my mind. “You are not a QT”. Thanks for that Carrie.
I am glad my sister sent these things to me. Now I can dispose of them.