11-19-04

Shandah’s Party

There was a girl there. Her name was Shandah. Everyone knew her, and everyone liked her--Naomi, Raymie, Delilah, Gemma—everyone. She was a wild girl. Yeah, that’s what she was. She was in Shiloh because she made a lot of trouble back home: drugs, stealing, drinking, you name it. “You’re gonna die anyway, Carmen,” she’d say, “ Why follow the rules when you can break them?” I understood where she was coming from, but, at the same time, I wasn’t sure I could really believe in it.

I, Carmen Hash, was in Shiloh Presbyterian: Home for Teenage Girls (a.k.a. Shiloh) because I was suicidal, as well as a cutter. Yes, it was true. I went from good girl to completely crazed in a matter of months. I thought I was such a sad case. I thought I was until I met Shandah Tavann.

I remember that night, though. Shandah snuck us all out to the basement. We just liked to break the rules. Naomi always bribed Nadine, the night shift girl, never to tell, as long as we promised to stay within Shiloh walls. We agreed. Besides, none of us were local anyway.

Shandah had given sex for beer that day. She kept whom a secret; she promised to and we respected that. All we knew is that he went to the high school we were forced to attend. She had us all drunk before we knew it. I had never had a beer in my life, but it was easy to persuade a suicidal. It was almost too easy. I thought what Shandah had done to be immoral, but Shandah had been sexually abused, as well as she was suicidal. So, she was easy to give in as well. I respected her. I respected all sixteen girls at Shiloh because they were the only people I seemed to know that life didn’t have to be perfect with. They also knew that everyone didn’t have to be innocent. They seemed, to me, to have the best idea of what life was like than anyone I knew, or had ever known.

Things remained the same, until Shandah wanted excitement. She announced to all of us that she was sneaking out. “I want to live life to the fullest,” she said, “I love you all, but I’m done with you.” She hugged us all, and we said nothing. Naomi cried, as well as Gemma, but that was all. We all knew that when Shandah’s mind was made up, it was made up. There truly was nothing else to say.

Shandah left out the back window in the basement, breaking it. We all watched as she ran to and through the parking lot. We heard the alarms go off, and as security panicked. We were all rather drunk, but I thought that this might be why Shandah made us this way. Maybe by intoxicating us, she would disable us from remembering, or to at least remember less well, of what was happening. It didn’t work, though. When it was clear Shandah wouldn’t make it to the gate, which happened rather quickly, it seemed the whole world was watching as Shandah stabbed herself with a stolen knife from the kitchen. Shandah died almost instantly.

I remember the police, the sirens, and the ambulance; all the memories Shandah tried to rob and spare me of.

Everyone cried, at least all the girls. The staff held it in, giving all they had to keep a straight face in front of all of us. Security got tighter, and rule breaking became less for a while.

I stopped breaking the rules, especially after I learned that Shandah had been HIV positive for six months. I had been there eight, although it’d be another five before they’d ever let me go. Everyone believed that us girls suffered from the trauma of Shandah’s death, particularly the four of us who watched. I guess that meant we were more prone to things like suicide. Although the truth was, I really wasn’t.

We all went to the funeral, of course. Then, we all even kept in touch after we were one by one released, although it wasn’t so often as time went by. All of us were stuck with each other, though: the four of us. Shandah made that happen whether she wanted to or not. Our love for her wasn’t dead, or deniable. And none of us were ever the same.

I, and not just I, at least learned that I didn’t want to die. And I at least learned that I didn’t want to sink that low. It was hard to accept, but there was more to life than Shiloh and the mistakes you had to make to get there. So, the cutting stopped, and I’d never start again, because I knew and know that I couldn’t and can’t forget Shiloh, but more than anything, I couldn’t ever forget Shandah.

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11-20-04

My First Night as Shiloh

There was one night when my roommate, Ceciliah, decided to sneak us into the Television room. It was my first night at Shiloh Presbyterian: Home for Teenage Girls, and I was up to anything but sleeping in that unfamiliar bed in that unfamiliar room.

I hadn’t wanted to go that morning. I was simply forced. But, Mom and Dad made me and, being a minor, I had no right to consent or not to consent. Dad caught me cutting and saw the suicide note as well. I had tried the whole blade-to-wrist thing, and gained nothing but a night in the hospital. Now, I was here.

Nadine, the midnight shift girl, let us in, obviously. We’d never get away with sneaking anywhere without Nadine. She was so hard to persuade. But, she was cool. She was the only cool person there.

Ceciliah rounded up me, Shandah, Naomi, Gemma, and two girls named Parker and Teema, who I barely knew. We snuck into the room where all the couches were. We played the stereo and cranked it up. Nadine sat outside the room and read. “30 minutes,” she said.

“Man, I wish we had some beer or something,” Naomi said.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” I’d say, as if I actually knew what I was talking about.

“Carmen, have you ever gotten this weasy feeling the day after you drink? It’s like….I dunno….weird.”

“Hmmm….no,” I said, shyly.

I was afraid of not fitting in. I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but I’ll admit it now. Fitting in was vital in my position. I obviously didn’t like myself anyway, so why would I expect anyone else to?

“You’ve never felt it?” Naomi said again.

“Nope,” I responded.

Naomi busted out laughing. I wasn’t sure why. I immediately became nervous. What did I say?

“Oh goodness….you’ve never ever felt it?” she said again.

“What’s the big deal?” I asked. Naomi, and Gemma both completely blew up. I was so confused and embarrassed, I was sure my face had turned red.

“Ignore them,” a voice behind me said, “Naomi’s a drunk.”

I turned around and saw Shandah. It was the first time she had spoken to me. I’d seen her in the halls, but she hadn’t said one word to me all day, and I was too afraid to talk to her.

“Na, leave the girl alone. She’s new, and she’s confused,” Shandah said.

Naomi stopped laughing, “Oh come on, Shandah. It’s just some initiation. No harm done. I don’t think the girl drinks though.” Naomi laughed again.

“Big whoop, Naomi. It’s not like you have to be an alcoholic like yourself to get in here.” She nudged me, “so, what are you in for, anyway?”

I almost wanted to throw up, but Shandah’s voice was so soothing, I suddenly didn’t feel so nervous anymore. I felt at home. “I’m a cutter,” I said.

“Oh, what, did the folks catch you?” Ceciliah asked from the back.

“Well, yeah. And I tried to kill myself a few days ago,” I said.

Parker Trall, sitting next to me, suddenly spoke, “Wow, finally, another suicidal. It’s an honor!”

I smiled. I really did. I suddenly felt at home, and right. I owed it all to Shandah, too. I suddenly wondered if some twisted God gave her to me to bring me a little security. I hadn’t felt it in such a long time I didn’t know what to do.

We all carried on conversations about why we were in. Half the girls showed me their cutting scars, including Shandah and Naomi. I had never seen cuts before that were not of my own flesh, and I was impressed. Parker’s suicide attempt was the same as mine. She tried to slit her wrists. She did hers in her room, though. I tried to in the bathtub with a razor. It all brought us together, though. In some twisted, demented, messed up teenage girl way, we were a family. We really were.

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2-1-05

Replacements

I scarfed down chips and more chips. Sometimes I’d eat a whole can. Pringles. Those were the best. The joy of sinning with food: It’s the type of sinning that won’t give you diseases and babies, bad reputations and attitudes, or bad much of anything except weight gain. I loved food. At least I did before I came to Shiloh Presbyterian: Home for Teenage Girls.

Yeah, I was a cutter. And with cutting comes depression. And with depression comes a constant aching in my stomach that replaces food. A problem? No, I have enough of those. I’m in this place because I can’t deal with my problems in a “healthy” way, not because I am insecure. Although, I do admit, the covers of magazines tend to ruin my appetite with a replacement of jealousy. I guess that’s every teenage girl’s problem though. And the aching I get just to think about anything that involves losing weight or being thin replaces the food. So, I’m not hungry.

I didn’t think about it until I met Jaylee. She’d tell me how much she thought she could control it, and that now she knows she was so totally and completely wrong. Control. I found that in cutting. I could only imagine how much she was losing her mind. I had dropped weight. Not as much as Jaylee, of course. At a home for teenage girls, they’re going to make you eat. Is it so hard for them to accept that I’m not hungry? I learned quickly that it must be, so I began using skills to hide the not eating. I guess something inside me couldn’t handle food. I couldn’t handle myself or who I was or anything, and food was only going to make it worse. So, I got rid of the problem. A problem I had had since I was about 11. I hated my body. What can I say? Some girls aren’t born pretty.

I watched Jaylee do the same thing. She tried to hide her food. She seldom got away with it after a while. She got so bad they’d give her IV’s and once even tube fed her. It was scary to watch her do the same thing I learned I was doing. I guess it’s kind of bad when you develop more problems when you’re supposed to be in the process of resolving the problems you already have.

“You’re like me, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anorexic.”

“No.”

Jaylee looked at me, not with shock or disapproval, but with understanding. I didn’t know I had it. Somewhere, subconsciously, it was happening. It had been happening all this time. I hated myself enough to do it. I wanted to hurt and hurt and hurt. And the thing was, I knew all about eating disorders since I was very young. I knew about all of it and what it led to. Not once did I not believe the consequences they tell you over and over—I just didn’t care without even realizing it. And I tried to hide it, more and more. I didn’t want to be forced to undergo anymore hell than I was already subjected to. Cutting took guts and risk. Anorexia made you weak.

I couldn’t eat when I tried. The disease had taken over me and deep down I was scared for so many reasons. I was afraid of never leaving that place. I was afraid of the living hell or treatments and more therapy. But more than anything, I was honestly afraid I would die. Girls with just one of these problems often die. I had both of them. And being suicidal, I felt strange with this fear. And yet, I barely acknowledged that I was suicidal because I just didn’t want to die anymore. I didn’t want to be like Jaylee, who’s life was in more danger than my own. A cutter was me, but anorexia with it was just scary.

They figured me out, though. I passed out one day in PE. I honestly, truly did. My friend Shandah caught me, keeping my head from smashing on the floor. And my roommate, Ceciliah, had them call 911. According to them, Jaylee was the first to get scared. They said she even cried.

At first they checked my wrist, but the doctor simply resolved that it was malnutrition and starvation. I expected anger from some of the shrinks and nurses, but no. I expected absolutely no independence, free time—I suspected all the good to be drained from my life, but, no. Most of what they concluded about me was things they already knew: I was insecure, and as a result, self-destructive. No arguments from me, especially since the only thing that changed was the treatment I got itself now including cutting, suicide and body image. However, I could only conclude for myself that I was no longer suicidal.