Here, in my Head
Lauren Stone
Copyright Lauren Stone 2011
Smashwords edition
Prologue
What is this? Is it a search for a hidden meaning? Is it a warning? Is it a confession, or a placing of blame? Is it a love letter? Is it a final goodbye or a final hello? Is it final at all? She once asked me what I was expecting to happen once the story was finished. I didn’t know. She went on to tell me that it would never be finished until she died.
So maybe it’s not final. Maybe nothing is.
There’s nothing to gain out of this. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know this. The fact that I have spent months remembering, and tormenting, and getting all of this out means nothing, because it won’t change anything.
It might be a grand gesture. I’m a romantic, after all, and that’s what it looks like from the outside.
This may seem like a piece of non-fiction. It’s not. Sure, all of these people and places existed, and all of the events happened. The thing to remember, I think, is that every story has more than one side, and I am physically incapable of remaining objective in the telling of this one. The musings and thought processes are completely subjective, thus this can be nothing but fiction.
I think… well, I don’t know what I think anymore, to be completely honest. I have been trying to write this for over two years, now. I always got to a certain point, and couldn’t go on. I think it’s because I was afraid of thinking too much about what happened after that.
Maybe I’ve never been ready before. For her, I mean. Maybe I’ve been the one who hasn’t been ready, because I’ve been running from the more difficult aspects of our relationship.
The fact is that I can’t just put a band-aid over this. Or I can, but only for a short time. It sits, and festers and irritates. I try to scratch at it, only enough to soothe, but the itching just gets worse, until it turns into a sore.
It’s a horrible downward spiral from there.
So maybe the fact that I have refused to think about everything, and piece everything together in a way that makes sense has somehow kept me from being able to heal the wound and move forward.
This certainly seems like a plausible explanation, but I know it can’t be that simple.
Besides, how many of these quick answers have I come up with over the years?
Maybe this is a way for me to heal. Maybe this is the only way I know how to be okay.
I hope she’ll understand that, as she reads the pages to come.
One
One very ordinary day in March (I think it was March, that portion of my timeline is fuzzy), 2004, my life changed forever. I was sixteen, and I met the love of my life that day.
Don’t let anyone fool you. Love at first sight is a very real thing. It is not lust, but utter, complete, true love. You hear about it in films, where characters wax poetic about locking eyes with someone and just knowing. They talk about how anyone that doesn’t find that is simply settling for less. These are not Hollywood lies.
I know this, because it has happened to me.
Granted, I don’t remember the specific date. A lot has happened since then, and I really don’t place much importance on numbers, but just because I can’t remember the date does not mean I can’t remember everything else about that day. It has been etched in my memory, destined to haunt me until the day I die, as have several of the days that happened since.
I’ve always had this… thing with self-mutilation. You hear a lot of horror stories about people digging into their own skin with sharp objects, searching around for anything that could cause them harm. I am happy to report that I was never this far gone. Yes, I made myself bleed, but I wouldn’t take just any old weapon. I made sure I was safe, regardless of the fact that at certain points in my life, I carved deeper than at others.
To get it out of the way now, before too much confusion sets in, let me explain why I felt the need to hurt myself. There are many reasons, as is the case with most self-mutilators. First, it was simple curiosity, but I felt a sick kind of relief that kept me coming back.
I’ve always had the notion that nothing I did was good enough. To this day, I’m not entirely sure who I was trying to be good enough for, but that didn’t really matter at the time. What mattered was the sense of not being good enough, of something being inherently wrong inside of me. This wrongness had to come out, and I knew of no better way than to bleed it out myself.
There’s also the sense of power. I didn’t cut myself to feel pain; I was feeling quite enough of that on my own, thank you very much. No, I cut myself because it was a pain I could control. It was something tangible, that I could look at and say, “This is why I hurt.”
That didn’t matter, though, that day in March. You see, that day, I held onto the belief that I was better, and moving on with my life. The most recent scars had faded to the point that only I could point them out, and that was just because I had spent so many hours looking at them with fascination. I believe I was up to two and a half months of refraining from inflicting bodily harm upon myself.
I had not yet ever made it to three.
I remember walking into my Theater class, and falling into the familiar desk that I had picked out for myself. The room was split, somehow, though it’s difficult to explain. It was a very small school. Extra-curricular activities had to share students. The Theater department was mostly made up of the artsy jock kids, strange as it may sound. There were many cheerleaders in the troupe, most of them incredible actresses.
I was a band geek, however, what with my father being the high school band director. As anyone who has ever attended a public high school will tell you, the band geeks and the cheerleaders very rarely mix. So, I sat on my own, because I didn’t want to have anything to do with people I perceived to be shallow and ditzy.
That day, everyone was huddled around the director’s desk, with no director in sight. I thought about staying right where I was, but the oddness of the situation was enough to pique my curiosity, and against my better judgment, I found my feet carrying me over to the crowd.
Looking back, I’m somewhat amazed by the ease with which I insinuated myself into the circle. My relationship with the other Theater kids was somewhat complicated. In Theater, I was just fine. They laughed at my sarcasm, and included me in their reindeer games, but outside of the auditorium, I didn’t really exist for any of them. That was fine with me, though, because I had spent the previous year painstakingly setting up my reputation as a loner. It just wouldn’t do for me to start hanging out with cheerleaders.
As it turned out, the reason everyone was gathering this way was because we had a new student in class. I had managed to come in right in the middle of a big group introduction. I stood quietly as Brittany went through the class members one by one, providing a brief description of their personalities. I wasn’t really expecting to get much of an introduction, so I took this time to really look at the new girl standing in front of me.
She had a rebellious air around her. That was the first thing I noticed. There was something about the way she carried herself that screamed defiance. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest as she listened to Brittany’s introductions.
“This is Sam,” I heard Brittany explain. I was somewhat taken aback, because I was honestly expecting her to just skip right over me This new person looked like she’d sooner hang out with the likes of the cheerleaders than the likes of me, with her eyeliner, and tight fitting tank top. She simply fit into a more popular uniform, and I had no idea why I was being included. “She has a dry sense of humor, but you have to listen to her. She’s funny.”
It was then that our eyes locked for the first time. I hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes when I was just casually observing, but when her eyes met mine, the crystal blue iciness left me frozen. Under normal circumstances, I would have had a witty comeback, but I was currently fighting off the weight of… something that rested upon my shoulders when I looked at this new person. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it was so heavy it almost made my legs buckle.
It was then, in that moment, that I knew my world would never be the same.
She smiled at me. I don’t know why she smiled at me, because I’m fairly certain that she had no idea what was going on in my head that day, but she smiled at me as I struggled, and failed, to come up with an appropriate sarcastic remark.
Then it was over. Brittany moved onto the next person, and I could breathe again. The girl, Alice, I found out later, shifted her attention to the next person in line. I looked around myself, searching for something other than her to rest my eyes on. I settled for Brittany, because she was the one talking. Brittany also smiled at me, and gave me the slightest nod. She knew.
Let me pause, and explain that this is not my coming out story. You hear so many of those told these days, about people not realizing that they’re gay until they meet someone to bring it out of them. This was never the case for me. I began noticing my homosexual tendencies in the eighth grade, when I developed a harmless crush on one of my friends. It wasn’t until my freshman year that I realized what it all meant. I was now a junior, and had gone through all of the agonizing I needed to, and was comfortable with myself. I lived in a small town, however, and knew it was easier to just keep my sexuality to myself. It wasn’t that I was necessarily in the closet; it was just something I never talked about.
There was no reason for me to stay in the circle any longer, and I needed time to myself to recollect my head, so I backed out and made my way back to the other side of the room, completely forgetting the curiosity that tugged at me over the fact that we had no director. It was a moot point, completely insignificant in the face of what I’d just been through.
A few minutes later, a substitute came rushing into the room, breaking up the huddle around the director’s desk. She was an older woman, though I’m not sure why that’s important. “Alright, guys,” she said, addressing the class. “I’ve been told that you’re supposed to be practicing with stage make-up today.”
Well, shit. I didn’t even have any experience with every day make-up. I was more of a crew person, lights being my specialty. This was beyond my realm of knowledge. Thankfully, Jessica spoke up. “Can we work in groups?” she asked.
Our substitute looked down at her notes. “Well, it doesn’t say you can’t.”
Yes! Now all I had to do was get into a group with people I didn’t particularly hate. Jessica was okay in my book. She seemed to be more grounded than the rest of the people she hung out with, like Brittany. Brittany was even okay once you got used to her, so I slowly made my way over to them and slipped into their group. They had decided to try and turn another classmate, Terry, into an old woman. I sat down close by and pretended to pay attention. It would earn me my participation that day.
I wasn’t prepared, however, for Alice to come and sit down next to me. I did my best to keep my face neutral and forward, not willing to give anything away.
“You’re going to have to cut your hair,” Brittany said as she drew wrinkle lines on Terry’s forehead, glancing at Alice. “Mr. Michaels, the principal, isn’t going to go for the red tips.”
I looked to my right, where Alice was sitting. I hated to admit it, but Brittany was right. Any color deemed “unnatural” was against the dress code, and the tips of her hair were a very bright red. Her brow furrowed slightly, and a small scoff escaped her lips. “I’ll just wait until he says something to me,” she explained. I was right. This girl was defiant.
I was sitting in a group of girls, so, naturally, because of Brittany’s little comment, the conversation spiraled into one about hair, and coloring, and styling, and a bunch of other things that I have no idea about. The fact of the matter is that I’m a tomboy, and couldn’t care less about all the frilly stuff.
One of the girls said something about her hair being fried due to all the coloration she had put it through. Finally, I had something to say. “Products never touched my hair,” I threw out; proud of the fact that mine was the healthiest head in the room.
Out of nowhere, there were fingers running across my scalp. For reasons I’ll never be able to explain, I found myself enjoying the contact. Normally, I hated for people to mess with my hair. It seemed too intimate an act, and I had issues letting people into my bubble, but instead of jerking away, I sat and let Alice rake her fingers across my scalp. It just felt so… right, and natural.
Then I remembered where, and who, I was. First of all, I was a loner. No one got through my walls, especially on the first day I met them. Second of all, this was a very small, close-minded town, and the last thing I wanted were rumors going around about her before she got herself settled in. If I let her continue, I would just be shoveling dirt on her grave. Besides, it seemed to me that she was just a touchy-feely person, rather than actually making some kind of move on me.
So, it was, with an annoyed look on my face, that I pulled away. I tried not to notice the amused look on her face, but it didn’t work very well.
It was very obvious that I withdrew into myself after that. Granted, I didn’t participate much in the conversation to begin with, but there’s a strange kind of glossy look I get when I go inside my head. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but the next time I came out, Terry was looking more like an alien than an elderly woman. Jared, who seemed to be group floating was commenting on it. I noticed Alice get up from her spot next to me and take the make-up away from Brittany, though I didn’t realize what she was doing until she started working on Terry herself.
I watched her as she began to thin out our subject’s lips, explaining that as you age, they begin to thin. This was something I knew, as I had seen it happen on several women, and I assumed that everyone else knew it, too. Yet, it was the kind of common sense that seemed to slip all of our minds.
I leaned over towards Jared conspiratorially. “How does she know that?” I asked him in a stage whisper.
“She wants to know how you know all this,” Jared told Alice, pointing to me nonchalantly. My hand immediately flew to my face. I decided that Jared was an asshole that day.
Alice stopped in the middle of what she was doing and looked at me. She offered me a small smile, though I took no comfort from it. It was more challenging than anything. “Well, my brother’s a Theater major,” she said, glancing at the rest of the group before letting her eyes fall back on me.
“Ooh, brother…” Brittany started. I forced myself to keep my face neutral. Brittany was a flirt, and would always be a flirt, and I should have been used to this behavior by now.
“He’s gay,” Alice told her with a shrug before going back to work.
The proclamation struck a chord with me. I’m not sure if it was the simple fact that she was the first person I had come across who had experience with gay people, or the matter-of-fact way she told us. To her, it was simply a part of who her brother was, and that was all there was to it. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, it didn’t seem like it.
We declared Terry a lost cause shortly after the brother revelation. There was too much damage done, we couldn’t save her. There wasn’t all that long left in class anyway, maybe only about fifteen minutes. Brittany had some cheerleader thing to go take care of, so she and Jessica managed to get out of class. They asked Alice if she wanted to join them. I sat back and watched as she said yes. As they passed me, she looked at me and asked if I wanted to come, too. That smile was back on her face, but there was no mistaking the challenge behind her icy blue eyes. I shook my head no and went back to brooding.
I wasn’t expecting them to come back during the class period, but they did, a few minutes before the bell rang. I remember trailing behind the rest of the class that day. I usually stayed behind to talk to the director, because over the previous year and a half, she had turned into a kind of therapist for me. It was good to have an adult to talk to.
Mrs. Scott wasn’t there that day, however, so it was simply out of habit that I waited for the room to clear before heading out myself. Somehow, I hadn’t realized that Alice had stayed behind, too. No, we weren’t alone. She was a few steps ahead of me as we were leaving.
“What was your name again?” she asked, turning around and facing me. She stopped walking and let me catch up to her.
“Sam,” I said. “Alice, right?”
She nodded, and threw me a kind of half smile mixed with a smirk, and her eyes twinkled. We walked slowly, since it was time for lunch and you can’t be late for that. We spoke a little, but none of it was important. It was just random introductory conversation, where I discovered that she was a sophomore, and that she wasn’t really into Theater, the counselor just needed to fill her schedule. I remember I pried for any extra-curricular activities she may have been involved in, but got nothing. This girl didn’t live for her school.
We got up to the cafeteria, and I hesitated. I had a small phobia of people. She looked at me curiously and asked, “Are you not going in?”
I sighed, and shifted my weight, an obvious sign that I was somewhat uncomfortable with the situation. I looked at her and offered her a weak smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “I don’t do so well with crowds,” I explained. I pointed to the band hall doors to the right of the cafeteria. “I usually spend my lunch hour in the band hall.”
She studied me for several long seconds. I could feel her coming to all the right conclusions about me. “Okay,” she said, and that challenging smirk I had seen earlier flashed across her face. “I’ll see you later,” she said, and then she was gone.
I found myself missing her presence, and that fact disturbed me to my core.
Two
I remember not being able to get her out of my head the rest of the day, and well into the night. It was absolutely ludicrous for me to be feeling that way. I had known her for less than twenty-four hours, but she had such an impact on me, such a first impression, that the memory of her lingered where no one else’s had.
I lied awake that night, fighting off visions of us together. Even then, before we knew each other, our togetherness seemed simply inevitable, regardless of the fact that I knew next to nothing about the girl.
I think what was the strangest was that I had told my mother about her. I felt that I had made a friend that day, and I actually told my mom. Now, I didn’t care for my mother very much. She had forced me out of the closet the year before, when I was still coming to terms with things, and wasn’t quite ready. It had put a strain on our relationship to say the least, and since then she had been warning me not to tell anybody, to hide who I was.
It’s not that she was ashamed or embarrassed. I know this. My mother has always stood by the idea that being gay is not a choice. She realizes that no one in their right mind would choose to be persecuted for something that has nothing to do with anyone else. We did, however, live in a small community, where everybody knew everybody else’s business, and posted signs in their front yards stating which Baptist church the family inside proudly worshipped at.
Ultimately, she was trying to protect me.
Still, hiding myself was damaging, and I detested her for this. So for me to speak to her at all about the things going on in my life was huge. I still don’t know why I told her about meeting Alice when I did. There was nothing going on.
I didn’t see Alice the next day at school, but I wasn’t completely surprised. She was, after all, a year behind me. Our school alternated what days held what classes. We would take the first four one day, and the last four the next, then start the whole cycle over. So the only chance I had of seeing her was during those class periods when grades would mix. So Theater was pretty much it.
I always looked forward to that class. It was easy, and for the most part, I liked the company I had there. Having a kick ass director didn’t hurt at all, either. Still, I was more excited than I had ever been to get to Theater the next time it rolled around.
I noticed her immediately when I walked in the room, though I didn’t make a conscious effort to look for her. She was talking to Jared, leaned over his desk. Our eyes locked as I passed by and plopped into my own desk out of the way from the rest of the class. The next thing I knew, she was sitting next to me, offering me a sly grin in greeting.
Before we could start talking, our director walked in, giving me a curious expression as she passed me. Mrs. Scott had never known me to be anything other than a recluse so seeing me with someone, anyone, was a rare sight.
Somehow, and I’m still not sure how, we managed to watch a sketch comedy that Jared had brought in that day. I think we were supposed to be studying comedic timing and whatnot, but I think it was just an excuse to let Mrs. Scott get caught up on whatever paperwork she needed to complete.
I know that Alice spoke to me in hushed tones during the show, and I know that I spoke back. I honestly don’t remember what we spoke about, though. It wasn’t important. The first thing I do remember, though, is her telling me that she could tell a lot about a person by looking at their handwriting.
I had heard of this before, when someone looks at the direction the letters slant, or if the writing is loopy or blockish, and telling them subtleties in their personality. Personally, I thought it was a load of shit, but I wrote my name for her, and let her tell me who I was. Apparently, I was incredibly introverted and was worth more than I allowed myself to believe.
Yeah, okay, anybody could have told me that just by looking at me.
So, I still believed it was just a load of shit, but I had to give her credit for being observant. She at least paid attention to the way I carried myself. I didn’t tell her that she was full of shit, though. I just looked at her and smiled.