As I pulled up to the school building, bleak and dreary, my heart began to race wildly; my life was about to change more than I ever could have known. The low hum of my dad’s 2017 Toyota Tacoma filled me with anxiety for what I was about to do. I knew subconsciously that it was a bad idea but I didn’t care, I needed to do this. I opened the door of the truck, climbed out of the front seat and slung my heavy backpack, weighed down by the emotional burden of the weapon within it, onto my shoulders. The December air, crisp and gentle, tickled my neck, but the shivers down my spine were from anxiety, not cold. I began to make my way towards the sidewalk, every step of my dirty white shoes met with resistance from my muscular legs, sore from the violent shaking of the panic attack I had the night prior. As I walked over to my friend Claire, her brown hair flowing in the soft breeze, the four fresh cuts on my right hip began to sting, irritated by the movement of my skinny jeans, as blue as a cheerful April sky, against my hip. If this worked out the way I wanted, maybe there wouldn’t be any more of those angry gashes on my body. Little did I know that by trying to solve pain with more pain, I would end up completely lost with no map to return to who I once was.  

I continued to stride towards my friend Claire, my gait brimming with steady confidence, a sharp contrast to the way my stomach churned. Eyes up. I lifted my gaze and added a slight puff to my chest. A dazzling smile spread across my masked face, igniting my eyes with a fire made with flames of false joy. This posture, a facade, was one that I had spent years creating. Anyone who knew me as a child always claimed that I exuded confidence and spoke loudly, always wanting to be heard. Over time, the genuine smile on my lips became forced and my straight back and lifted chin became a shield rather than a boastful flag of self-confidence. Breathe. Claire’s light green eyes, pools of concern rippling with fear, locked on mine. I raised my eyebrows in a playful expression, as if to say, “Last night was pretty crazy, huh?” She met my penetratingly joyful gaze with confusion; she had not forgotten about what happened less than eight hours ago. She continued to hold my gaze as I closed the distance between us with a few long, confident strides. Less than eight hours prior, I took a knife to my body for the first time, creating four chaotic slices on my hip in hopes that my self-hatred and fear would leak out through those freshly made holes. I had texted Claire in the thick of my breakdown so she knew, and I saw her gaze brush my hip in an instant so brief that I would have missed it if time didn’t feel like it had slowed to the pace of a dying man’s heartbeat. Do it. 

“Hey,” I chirped cheerfully, afraid to puncture the bubble of awkward peace that I had created by my fake peace. She smiled back, but the light didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Hi,” she said gently, as if she feared that I might break like a delicate piece of china. It was too late for that, I was already broken. 

“I have something to give you,” I teased playfully. I had to keep the tone light to mask the severe gravity of what I was about to do. 

“Oooohhh,” she played along. She knew what I was doing. She could sense my avoidance. 

I reached into my tattered, seafoam-teal backpack, my hands acting completely separate from my mind. My fingers curled against the smooth handle of the knife, a collectible that I had received as a Christmas present years before. Energy pulsed through me as my body reacted to the familiar feeling of its weight in my palm. The fresh cuts on my hip pulsed to life as I suppressed an overwhelming urge to hurt myself further. As I pulled out the knife, trying to conceal it from the other impatient, tired students gathered in front of the dreary school building, I saw Claire’s expression change from one of concern to one of fear. 

“I feel like I have to give this to you. Otherwise, I might, you know, do it again,” I whispered, my chest filling with the warm discomfort of shame at my lack of mental strength. Snatching the knife away from me and shoving it in her bag, she nodded with grim understanding. 

I glanced at the security camera watching over the school campus like a hawk. I felt a lightness take over my body, as if I was merely a shadow of my former existence. Trembling slightly, I approached the school’s doors and grabbed hold of the door handle, as cold and silver as the deadly blade I had just given away, and pulled it open. As I stepped into the harsh reality of the day ahead of me, I let out a small, inaudible sigh. You did it, I assured myself, not realizing that the hardest part of this day was still ahead of me. I wiggled my fingers at Claire in a friendly, trusting wave goodbye. Later I would know that by allowing myself to breathe, I had strangled her; I removed the burden from myself but placed it upon her shoulders. Later I would feel guilty because I knew I was stronger than her; my heart was calloused from trauma and hers was lighter— a valuable silver dollar in opposition to my faded copper penny—yet I still made her bear the weight of my mistakes. I know I could have shouldered that burden like I had done many times before; I was just tired of doing it alone. But at that moment it felt so exhilarating to be freed from the chains of my mental health that I forced myself to believe that I made the right choice. I sat in the cold auditorium, scrolling through my phone as anxiety started to creep into the fringes of my reality. 

Just as the darkness of my mind dulled the mind-numbing sanctuary of my phone screen, I heard a voice calling my name.

“Is Ava Natalino in this study?” The voice belonged to a young woman. Her gray mini skirt, navy blue cardigan, and black heels instantly gave her away as some kind of administrator. She looked around the poorly lit auditorium confidently before her eyes rested on me, drawn to me as if my sadness was a beacon of light.  

“Uh, yeah I’m here,” I said, trying to conceal the nervousness in my voice. I was never one to break the rules, so the dangerous and illegal act that I committed thoughtlessly this morning was starting to weigh down on me. 

“Hi Ava,” she spoke confidently with another one of her dazzling, trusting smiles. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Miss Guilmet, your guidance counselor.” 

Oh no. There was no possible way that the timing could have been a coincidence. She knows. The night before, I had told Claire about self-harming for the first time. She knew that the jokes I had been making weren’t just jokes anymore, that I was seriously in need of some psychiatric help. She had offered to text my parents for me and tell them that, despite the front I had put on, I wasn’t actually okay, but I had aggressively resisted. I didn’t want people to know about this new habit; I was ashamed and scared at my complete lack of control. 

“Can you follow me to the counseling office?” she asked in a cheerful tone that sounded too sweet to be genuine. 

“Sure. Should I grab my stuff?” I asked in a tone just as sickly sweet. If she was going to act like everything was fine, then so was I. 

“Yes, that’s probably for the best. Follow me.” Heart racing, I slung my overstuffed backpack over my shoulder and trailed her calmly. I attempted to maintain a confident stride, once again putting on a mask to hide my swirling anxiety. I plastered on a smile, but I’m sure she could see my mania and frantic fear as I forced it to reach my eyes. She asked me a series of questions, polite small talk, as we descended the two flights of stairs to the counseling offices. Her chipper tone and seemingly genuine interest in me led me to believe that maybe she just wanted to meet me and introduce herself, especially since most of my peers had scheduled Zoom meetings with their counselors to introduce themselves earlier this month. By the time we reached her office, I noticed my pulse slowing but I didn’t dare let my muscles relax, so I held them rigid as she sat down in a spongy chair directly across from me. 

“Ava, do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her cheery tone replaced by a gentle, comforting one. She knows, I panicked. The anxiety returned once again and the air became thin and hot despite the fact that it was the first day of December. I could feel the tears starting to sting my eyes, little spears shoved into my corneas to remind me of my weakness—I’ve always had a problem with speaking to authority. 

I shook my head. “No, I don’t actually,”  I said, feigning confusion. I knew exactly why I was here. Either Claire had told her about me cutting or about the knife I had just given her. I tried to stop myself from gasping for air and straightened my spine.

“Are you sure?” she questioned, cocking her head. She wanted me to admit it rather than have to force my hand by revealing the extent of her knowledge. Not wanting to give away any more information than absolutely necessary, I shook my head. Upon seeing this, she sighed, annoyed and saddened that she would have to open the difficult conversation. “Your friend Claire gave us the knife you brought to school today.”

Suddenly, the oxygen had been completely sucked out of the room. I felt acidic bile rising in my throat but I choked it back right as the tears that had been biting my eyes flooded my face in a tsunami of salty sadness. I felt betrayed. I felt scared. I felt weak. I felt tired. Hours passed as seconds ticked by. I was an astronaut, drifting in space, floating outside my body as I tried to get as far away from Earth as possible while rooted in the plushy chair of the guidance office. The world went foggy as my brain shut down and my eyes became washed out beaches incapable of making sense of anything around me. I could hear the faint echo of Miss Guilmet’s voice, saturated with manufactured compassion, but I chose to ignore it. Hatred and confusion and fear and anger welled up inside me as another tidal wave of tears crashed down on my face. When Miss Guilmet asked me which parent she should call, I choked out the word “dad” before I collapsed into hysteria once again, afraid that my mom wouldn’t be able to drive to the school safely if she knew the circumstances of why I was here. Minutes ticked by, feeling like years until a tall, birdlike blonde woman entered the room with an air of authority. She introduced herself as the head of the counseling department. I was too focused on emotionally escaping to catch her name, but I remember it reminded me of some kind of disease I had learned about in wellness class. 

“Ava, we have to search through your bag to make sure you don’t have any more weapons in here,” she said, firm yet gentle. “Do you have any questions?” 

“Can I-can I talk to Claire?” I sputtered through rivers of tears and snot. 

“I’m afraid you can’t right now,” she replied robotically, ignoring my breakdown as she seized my dirty backpack. She looked at it as eight-year-olds look at gifts on Christmas. A vulture, she methodically unzipped each pocket, pulling out pencils, folders, binders. She fished a crumpled teal sticky note out of a pocket of the bag and eagerly uncrumpled it as if she expected to find candy or a deep secret inside. Her face fell when she realized it was just a geometry problem, not a suicide note. “Am I going to find anything else in here? Anything…dangerous?” 

My eyes, no longer blurry with tears but still red and swollen from crying, pierced into her with a sharp fury. “No,” I spat, furious that this woman believed she had the right to violate my privacy. The empty pit inside me filled with an angry fire. I tried to dissociate, cutting myself off from reality and floating into a world of only the colors red and black, and in an instant, I was no longer on Earth. 

The door to the counselor’s office opened with a whoosh; the hinges didn’t dare squeak and pop my bubble of blissful escapism. My dad stood in the doorframe. He looked at me gently, his eyes a compassionate hug as he stayed a few feet away from me, knowing I didn’t want to be touched. I maintained my alternate, floating dreamworld as I was led into a cold conference room. The room epitomized how I felt; it was furnished and painted with varying shades of gray and besides the few swivel chairs around the table, the room was completely empty. The birdlike woman gestured for my dad and me to sit as she began to squeak out something about therapy and “getting help”. I tuned her out, staring at the stormcloud-gray wall as if we were having a staring contest. I stayed this way, completely incapacitated, until I heard the blonde woman squeak out the word “suspension”. My eyes snapped up, machine guns taking aim, and focused on her. 

“What?” I growled. People had always viewed me as perfect, and this day had been proof that I was far from it. It wasn’t even that I wanted to be perfect—I understood that was an unattainable goal after years of crippling perfectionism—but because people expected me to be. I was the girl with the big house and the perfect grades and the good posture and the pretty smile. A suspension was too much for me to handle because it meant that I was everything I had pretended not to be. 

“Because bringing a weapon to school violates federal law, you might be facing a two-week suspension,” she said cautiously, faltering under the intense heat of my stare. “But given the circumstances, we will try to cut that down.” 

This was too much for me. The tidal wave of feeling crashed upon me again, but now I was drowning. My lunges ached and my stomach reacted to this gut-punch of information by churning in a queasy spiral. With this new information, my tie to reality was completely severed. The world went gray and blurry around the corners, a vignette. My dad’s calloused palm enveloped mine as he squeezed my hand, trying to drag me back to the prison-like conference room. I refused. After a few minutes of the cruel-eyed guidance counselor squeaking away, my father led me out of the room and into the parking lot. My body didn’t even register the light December chill that I had noted this morning; I was numb. 

As I approached my father’s gray truck, I felt his nervous gaze on the back of my neck. I pulled open the door of the backseat and chose to sit directly behind my dad so that I would not have to make conversation with him. The truck was the same as it had been this morning when he left me at school, but I was entirely changed. As the engine rumbled to life, a piece of me died. My dad steered us on the familiar route towards home, yet I had never felt more lost.