Dedication: To Laine. My Closest Friend. Thank you for standing by my side when I needed you most even if it was hard at first. Every day I feel lucky to know someone as caring and funny as you. Without you and the others I might not be here today writing this essay, and I don't think I can tell you that enough. While we aren’t connected by blood you are part of my family and I'm so glad I have you.
Grout is an aggregate material often made with a cement or epoxy base. Grout is often used to hold tile in place and keep out moisture. Grout can be found in a variety of places including bathrooms and kitchens. I hate grout. It is meant to keep water out, it is meant to keep tile down, but it doesn’t do its job. It’s water permeable, letting water in and allowing mold to grow and spread. It’s rough against the smooth tile that is perfect, that does its job. When you first lay grout it is white, a nice soothing color symbolizing purity, but it doesn’t stay white. When it gets stained, you will never be able to make it clean again.
This is all I can think about as I lie on the bathroom floor. The cool tile feels good on my clammy skin and tired bones. I run my fingers over the tile, savoring the feeling as I rest. My fingers hit the rough grout. There’s such a stark difference between the tiles, from something smooth and cool to something rough and almost painful. I can barely think. I am consumed by the grout. It plagues my thoughts; I feel as if I am drowning.
“Lee, are you ok?” I look up. It’s my mother. She’s standing in the doorway looking down at my pitiful form. I am sweating and crying. Vomit stains both my mouth and my nose. In that moment I could see the illusion of a strong, independent Daughter shatter. At this moment I am nothing more than a child. A pitiful, pathetic child.
I want to look at her, I want to tell her what’s going on, but I can barely speak. My body feels both heavy and nonexistent. I seem to be somewhere between Life and Death.
“I’m sick… I made a mistake.”
The way she looked at me is still burned into my mind. A mix of disappointment and frustration painting her face like an Elisabetta Sirani piece.
“What did you do?” Her tone is bitter just like the bile that stains my mouth. So bitter it burns my nose and throat. While my mother would never be described as sweet her voice being so bitter was jarring. It was like biting into an orange just for it to end up being a lemon. Her voice, something that had once brought me comfort in my lowest moments, was now stripping me bare on the bathroom floor. Her voice brought a wave of shame down upon my tired soul.
“I just wanted to forget, please, I want to forget.”
“What did you do?” she repeats. I know what I did, it was a mistake, I’m overdosing, I Am Dying. I just want to forget what He did. I don’t want to die. I just want to feel normal again. I hate what happened. I run my hand over the grout again.
The evening had started normally, The sun was setting as I walked home. It was a bit too hot for me, but I could deal with it. I can deal with a lot. My house is loud as I step in: two of my sisters are bickering, my mom is trying to work, and my other two sisters are outside. I smile, being home is a relief, junior year is hard, there are a lot of tests and for some reason I decided to take all AP classes.
“Hello eveeeee” my voice is childish. When I’m at home I don’t need to act my age, I am free to do whatever I want.
My sister, Eve, shoots me the nastiest glare. I am her least favorite sibling. “Shut up! Don’t talk to me!” I can shrug it off, that’s just how she is, bitter and cruel. Not everything is like that, my friend isn’t like that. He tells me I’m his favorite. That’s why I have to go over tomorrow. That’s why I can’t say no. As I walk down the stairs and get to my room I settle into my bed and call my friend. He’s so cool, I’m lucky to be friends with him. I try not to think about the time he held me down here and forced me to be close to him. Eve saw. Maybe that’s why she’s bitter. “Forget that!” a groan escapes me as I throw things off my bed. Everything smells like him. Get out, get out, get out. I can’t think about that. I have to see him tomorrow, how do I say no?
Later that night he called me. I was sixteen and he was eighteen. It wasn’t legal but he was high out of his mind. I felt like I had to talk to him. His home life was rough and he would tell me about it a lot. I felt bad for him, that’s why I was going over tomorrow. It was hard not to feel bad for him. I had known him since middle school, he trusted me enough to tell me about his life. He trusted me so much in fact he at one point told me he would have killed himself if I ever stopped being his friend. That’s why we were so close, I was special to him. As we were talking my phone had pinged and I looked down. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I would have just ignored the message and gone to bed. When I eventually opened the message, it was a collection of nudes he had taken because I was his favorite. That’s why he did all those other things to me before Because I was special to him. I remember I had touched my wall. I remember noticing the grout on my wall for the first time. I was his favorite.
I throw up again, my heart is pounding. Is this death? Am I going to die here? I manage to stand up and turn on the sink. Like a dog that’s been thirsty for days, I must drink. Everything burns, I can’t cry. It’s my fault after all, I can’t say no, I couldn’t say no. The mirror taunts me, it’s too dark to see my reflection but I can see the grout. I can’t escape it, it’s everywhere, he is everywhere. My mother stares down at me. My mother had never wanted kids. She was forced to have kids by her ex-husband and my father. She never felt that unconditional love for her children, we were more like pets to her, but even then my mother didn’t like animals.
“Will you stay with me?” she sighs like my dying wish is a burden, it was a burden to her. I was a burden to her. She walks away and comes back with a chair. She sits out in the hallway, she will never touch me, he is the only one, I am ruined.
“Do we have activated charcoal…?” I can barely see her but I know she rolls her eyes.
“It’s too late for that.”
“Can’t we at least try it?”
“There’s no point.” There was no point. I guess I’ll die here. My mother only stayed for fifteen minutes, then she went back to bed. The ground is cold. I run my fingernails over the grout; it rounds them out, softens them, takes them away. I hate it but I can’t stop touching it, I can’t stop going back, it was my fault.
When I woke up the next morning I was alive. I didn’t know whether to feel shocked or relieved. I get up and look at the ground where I had once laid, he was pathetic to do that. The sorrow I once felt shifted to anger and betrayal as I thought about what actually happened. No one has the right to make me feel that miserable. When did I let my body become his? When did I forget I was in control of my own actions? I take a shower and brush my teeth all the while staring bitterly at the grout. I cannot go to school that day because the pills I took are still in my system. The drugs made me feel weird. Last night they made me feel sick but right now they made me feel like I was unkillable. I’m not sure it was a good thing. He was my friend, there was meant to be respect between us but just like grout he just ruined everything. After a few hours the rage and betrayal settled into a pit in my stomach. I don’t feel real, did it even happen? I have to look down at my hands, my rounded chipped nails are the only proof of what I went through. Only I could ever know the full truth.
Later that day I am forced to face my mother again. She is still ashamed of my weakness.
“Lee.” Her voice is firm. She doesn’t mask the disappointment in her tone. I know what she wants to talk about.
“Yes mother?” Even though all the emotions i’m feeling, rage, betrayal, disgust, my voice is timid. While other people might find comfort in their parents when they are struggling, I have always found myself unable to do so. Maybe it’s because my mother was never interested in me emotionally. Maybe it’s because my father used to beat me for crying. All I know is that talking to these people is something that breaks me. Looking at her is like feeling all of my fibers torn apart.
“We need to talk about what you did last night” she’s not even looking at me. I don’t know why I am not worth her gaze.
“I know what I did was wrong. I’m sorry.” I don’t fully understand why I feel compelled to apologize to her.
“It wasn’t just wrong, it was stupid. You could have died, do you understand that?” She talks to me as if I am a toddler who has just broken a glass. At that moment I felt like a toddler, I felt stupid. All I can think to do is lie to her. Tell her the same lie I had been telling myself all night.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself… I was just trying to forget” It was a lie. When I was overdosing I didn’t want to die but the reason I took the pills was to end it all. I had been violated by someone I trusted and didn’t know what to do.
“Well that’s stupid. From now on you don’t get to keep track of your pills” her tone is unempathetic. I simply nod and keep my head down. I can’t let her see me cry. I’m not crying because of the punishment, I’m crying because I finally realize just how much I must burden her. The illusion of a secretly caring mother who puts up a cold front has been broken. That’s why I’m crying.
After I finish my talk with my mother I realize I have to tell my other friends about what happened. With shaky hands I open my laptop. A wave of nausea hits me like a truck. I swallow it back and try to focus on coming up with something to say. Usually I never stopped talking. I always had something to say but right now there was nothing. He had taken away my words, my thoughts, my entire being. I start crying as I write out the weakest possible recollection of events. I push my computer to the side and continue crying. I feel like a part of me is missing and all I want is for it to come back. All I want is to feel like myself again.
It is a few hours later when the first reply finally comes. It’s someone saying they’re sorry that happened and that they knew he wasn’t a good guy. It makes me feel a little bit better but I still feel empty. I turn to look at my wall and the mirror hanging on it. I get off my bed and I stare deeply into my own eyes. Have I always looked this tired? This sad? This young? Sometimes I forget my own age. I’ve felt like an adult for so long, taking care of the people around me while neglecting my own care. I reach my hand out to touch the mirror but then suddenly hear a ping. I go back over to my bed and sit down. This message is from my closest friend.
“Hey, I just got your message. Are you ok?” Even though I can’t hear their voice or see their face, I feel a small sense of comfort.
“Yeah, I’m doing better now.” I lied again. All I really do is lie. They don’t need to be burdened with my sadness, with my grief.
“So what exactly did he do?” Even over text their tone is clearly one of confusion. We had all been friends for years. It was easy to see why they might want to know what happened. I take a deep breath and try not to be a coward as I write out what happened. Not just the nudes but the other things he had done to me as well. After I finish typing I hit send. I am terrified that I will just end up bothering them. They’re all I have left. A few minutes pass before I get a reply.
“Ok well i talked to him and he says you’re lying and exaggerating.” My heart breaks. I thought they believed me? Am I lying?
“I’m not lying. I promise. I wouldn’t overdose just for attention. Please believe me” I feel like I have been dropped into an ocean. The water is cold and the waves never stop. My body has grown tired of fighting against the currents and waves. I just want to give up.
“Well i don’t know who to believe and he doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to do that”
“Can we agree to disagree?”
“I guess”
I let the waves swallow me whole. I lay on my bed, my mind a constant mix of deep despair because not even my closest friend believes me and emptiness because I am so emotionally drained. I have no one to talk to. I feel so lost. I’m sinking and there’s not a ship in sight.
The next day I head to school for the first time after my attempt. There’s a part of me that feels like I did die in that bathroom surrounded by the smell of vomit and the feeling of grout. All alone. I see people I know and I pretend like I’m all better. That i was just sick and that’s all. There is no need to burden them with my problems. As I finally enter class I see my closest friend. I quietly sit down next to them trying to stay out of focus. It doesn’t work.
“Lee?” The tone of their voice is genuine concern. It feels so foreign in my ears.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry” their voice is so soft, like they’re not actually talking to me. Why would they talk to me like that?
“Why?” I look at them for the first time since I got into the room. My breath hitches in my throat. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes and my ears burn. They aren’t looking down at me with disgust or disappointment, they’re looking right at me. It’s as if they can see me in the waves reaching out, calling out, for help.
“I shouldn’t have said I don’t believe you. I do believe you. It was just hard for me to understand what he would do that.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from them.
“Yes I do.” their voice is full of conviction that one could feel down into their soul. I put my head on the desk. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want them to see how weak I am. That’s when I feel it. A warm hand on my head. I catch myself flinching slightly but they still don’t pull away. They just rest their hand there. I feel my tears drip from my eyes to my glasses. Someone finally saw me. Someone saw how hard I had fought to stay above the surface of the water and finally came to save me. I can’t stop the tears. I sit up and I rest my face on their shoulder silently sobbing. I could finally process what had happened to me. I could finally mourn the person I lost in that bathroom. The part of me that was taken from me. For the rest of class I am making some kind of contact with them and they are there to keep me afloat.
Its been three years since I attempted suicide. I like to think a lot has changed since then and I would love to say that I have completely moved on since that day but that would be a lie and I promised myself that I wouldn’t lie about how I’m feeling anymore. It took a long time to feel better after overdosing. I had lost someone I considered a friend, I had lost my childhood, and most of all I lost a piece of myself. It took time to fully mourn the loss of a multi-year friendship but I had my friend to support me and remind me that I wasn’t alone. I still sometimes find myself thinking that I made up the entire thing but I have someone I can lean on. Even now in college we still talk and I still consider them one of my closest friends. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before. It took a long time for me to feel comfortable in my own skin again. For me to take my body back. Now when I look in the mirror I no longer see a shattered image. I see me. cracks, chips and all. There is still a small part of me that feels hollow, a small part of me that stings whenever a wednesday comes around to be a silent reminder of what could have been but instead of trying to silence it i embrace it. I acknowledge the fact that there was a real chance I wouldn’t be standing here today writing this essay but I am. Now while I’m getting ready to face the day, I make sure to look at myself in the mirror and remember how far I’ve come. Then I look at the grout and smile knowing that even though it still bothers me, it will never consume my thoughts like it did that day again.