Tell it Like it is

∆ How to Be a Freak.

When you are running to the hospital be admitted into a psych ward because your mind is against, you might wonder what type of conversation you have with your momma on the ride over. She will probably try to talk to you about your emotions and ask you if you have anymore razors.
     I was too close to crying to even look at her or speak. I think that it really helps that she wasn't angry and she didn't get mad at me because I don't tell her ahead of time. she was proud of me for at least telling someone before it was too late. She didn't cry in front of me even though she must have been crumbling inside like saltine crackers.
       My mom is far from perfect and is so human. She doesn't always do the right thing, but she wants to. Sometimes she just gets so caught up in what others will think, but don't we all?

The drive to the hospital was a longest drives of my life, emotionally.  When I got to the hospital I had to strip out of my street clothes (the clothes I arrived in). It was at this point I remembered the two razors I had taped to inside on my phone. I waited until my parents left, hoping I could throw them in the garbage when no one was looking but I thought about how unsafe that might be and a young nurse was sitting in my room watching me. I gave them to her instead. She immediately disposed of them and asked me if I had anything else. I wish I did, in my shoe or something.

I still had fresh cuts from earlier this morning so they needed to check them which involved me taking my pants off and showing a older, chubby lady all my cuts ( stomach, upper arms, lower left arm, thighs, and sides). Only 50+ shallow cuts on my left upper thigh were fresh. They were pink and hot to the touch. Scabs had not formed. I told the staff not to let my parents in at that time. My mom probably still doesn't know the extent of my self harm. I still don't believe it was that big of a deal. I understand it's not normal though. Cuts always came in groups of 20+ three or five times a day.

After I had clothes on my Mom and step dad came in to my room. They had food, I could smell it. My mom dug a paper disposable box of chicken Alfredo out of a paper bag. I knew it was from the hospital by the distinct look of the box. My mom has worked at two different hospitals, but the boxes looked the same at both. Before we moved my family use to go to the hospital cafeteria every Sunday to meet my mom for lunch. It always felt like such a treat because we were very poor at the time and the memory always makes my eyes water with sadness because we were whole and lunch was always peaceful. Sitting on the hospital bed in the ER I didn't care though. It was food. Food makes you fat.

I smiled at my mom and took the box. Part of me wanted to eat everything in that box but I would just throw it up. I opened the box. It smelt amazing, most food does after two weeks of barley anything and a lot of throwing up. I remember the light beige sauce, and the very small diced tomatoes. I remember the wide noodles, the grilled chicken that was slightly burned, then sliced, and laid on top. I spun the noodles around my fork and took a bite. It was very plain. I might as well have taken a bite of the cardboard box. I thought about ripping a bit of the box up to use as seasoning. The Alfredo  was warm and gooey. I wanted more. I put the fork down and closed the box. I told my mom that the chicken had weird black spots on it and threw it away.