Raided Battle Grounds have no place in a guidance counselor's office

May 8, 2014

I can't get the words out. Some things haven't changed, I guess. Instead, I slide my notebook across the desk, something I wrote yesterday.
        “For once when someone asks how I'm doing, I want to tell them the trUth, I waNt to sCream at them how I've been broken for so long. For oncE when someone says they're so sorry or they understand how I'm feeling, I waNt to tell them how wrong they are, how they can't even begin to imagine what I've been through. For once when someone sayS they love me, I don't want to feel obligated to say it back, because I've fOrgotten how love feels, because I haven't loved anyone since you. For once when someone asks what's wRong, I want to spill my heart to them without worrying how they'll see mE after. For once, I want to be accepteD for me, nothing held back, nothing pretended, just real." 
        And from today.

“I’m only suicidal because my pain exceeds my coping mechanisms. I can’t increase my coping mechanisms much more. So I want to quit everything because I’m trying to decrease my pain and stress. But I find myself unable to decrease my pain at all. People and circumstances don’t understand how on the edge I am. And so I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”

Mrs. Lopez looks up from my notebook, her ebony spiral curls tousling a bit. I bite my lip, afraid of her reaction. If Hedgepeth had been here today, I would've gone to him. But he chose the day I needed him most to be absent.
        For a minute, she does nothing at all. The hard plastic of the chair digs into my back. She reaches over the desk and takes one of my shaking hands.

“Jessica, I’m so glad you came to me.”

Aaand I lose it. It’s not an explosion of uncontrollable sobs and ungodly noises. It is silent tears, screaming down my cheeks and hanging on my chin, dropping down onto the empty spot in my chest.

Mrs. Lopez, God bless her, just pulls out the chair next to me and wraps an arm around me. She rubs my back and I lean into her embrace, desperate for any promise of comfort.

“My son.. he had something like this happen to him too. He was so unhappy and I didn’t realize it and because of that, I almost lost him. Jessica, you are like a daughter to me. We are not going to lose you. Okay?”

I nod, still incapable of making any noise remotely close to words.

“Okay,” She answers for me. “Here’s what we are going to do. I’m going to leave a few FRQs for our class to practice. And you and I are going to go see the guidance counselor. They’ll want to call your parents. We can sit down with them and get everything out in the open. I’ll stay with you for as long as you want.”

Such a feeling of relief sweeps through me, taking me off guard. But honestly, this is exactly what I need. A mother’s comfort, a solidly laid out plan. Mrs. Lopez knows this, knows me. Thank goodness for her. She is saving my life.
        For once, I am not thinking of you. I'm not considering what you'll think or how you'd react if you were here. I'm the one in trouble right now. Not you. Not you.

We walk to the guidance counselor’s office where I repeat my story again. The guidance counselor looks up my home phone and right before she dials, I holler at her to stop. I cannot have my mother here. I envision her picking up the phone during a Raided Battle Ground, playing with her World of Warcraft buddies, distractedly getting through the conversation and feeling annoyed as she logs off to come here. No. I cannot have my mother here.

“Call my Dad,” I say.

She does. I hear bits of the shockingly brief conversation.

I’m at work right now. Could you call my wife?

She asked for you specifically.

Oh. Ok. I’m leaving right now.

Not even hesitation. If Mrs. Lopez is my plan-maker, then Dad is my intervener. 

A half hour, some super awkward conversations, and lots of hand squeezing later, Dad is signing me out of school and we're walking out the schools gates.
        "I'll see you at home?" He says.
        "Um," I say. "I probably shouldn't be driving right now."
        He gives me such a sad look that I feel guilty-which is ridiculous, guilty for how I'm feeling? But he instead of saying something, he just puts an arm around me and walks me to his car.
         The absence of any noise in the car is so incredibly present and even though I’m in a delicate place right now, I would give anything for a bit of normal conversation. I am limited in my ability to handle stress and cope, but I am still me.

I drum my fingertips on the leather seat, fiddle with my purse.

“Were you at least nice to everybody?” Dad's comment shocks me out of my thoughts.

What? Did he really just say that?

I look over at him, and he's focusing on the road, but I see a slight tug at the corner of his mouth. I laugh and the unfamiliarity of the sound aches. “Well I definitely learned a lot of new things.”

He chuckles back and then we’re pulling into the driveway. Mom is full of questions. No surprise there. I have done my fair share of talking today and am more than happy to let Dad answer them. He does so in a graceful and open manner that both calms my mother and appeases me.
        "So what can we do to help?"
        Obviously I need help. But I've never known what to ask for. They can't exactly make food taste good or get me a good night's sleep or make me feel things again. I hesitate.
        "I can't handle stressful things right now. AP tests, swim championships, all of the band activities, even seminary.."
        "It's all optional now," Dad immediately declares. Mom and I both look at him, perhaps a little startled by this sudden solution.
        "AP tests and band field trips are nothing compared to keeping you around. If you don't feel you can handle them, then you don't have to."
        "But Mr. Mack.. and my coach.." I say weakly.
        "I'll talk to Mr. Mack myself," Dad says. "I should give him back the tuba he loaned me anyway."
        "I can call your swim coach," Mom puts in.
        If I'm surprised that Mom is intervening as well, it doesn't last long enough to register over my overwhelming sense of relief. Optional. Everything is optional.
        "Let me consider which activities I think I can handle. I'll get back to you?"
        They nod and Mom squeezes my hand. This morning has seemed like an eternity. Squeezing back, I excuse myself to go take a long and well-deserved nap.