***
YOU ARE OKAY.
I wrote that on my left hand this morning, in thick black sharpie, running from my wrist to the middle of my thumb.
In these crowded streets no one notices, no one stops and asks why it's necessary, no one even sees. And that's the way I want it to be.I want them to know I'm okay without having written evidence, just look in my eyes, look at my face, tell me it's the face of someone who is okay, truly okay, someone who will stay okay for a long time. Tell me it's not the face of someone who is beaten and broken and somehow still breaking.
At school I get some curious glances from teachers when I'm handing in papers. I remind myself to use my right hand instead, but it's not something I'm used to. Obviously, I keep forgetting, and teachers keep looking at my hand, looking at my eyes, shaking their heads but saying nothing. I don't know what they think, and part of me wants to know. Sure, I didn't want it to be seen, but now that it is, I need a response, I need some sort of reassuring or demeaning word, something to give this ink on my hand meaning beyond just me.
What kind of a person would write that on their hands?
Someone hurting, they'd say, or recovering. Or maybe they would say: someone strange, someone who needs to get their head adjusted. Someone like me.
***
HOPE
I wrote that yesterday, and it didn't reach my thumb, didn't bend to reach papers or crack with my knuckles. It simply stayed.
I met with my counselor that day, and she told me to stop reading so many books about teenage suicide. She said: that's never a good option, sweetie; before adjusting her glasses and scribbling something down on the stack of papers she'd placed in my file. I told her they were about more than that. I told her they were about life more than death. She nodded, but I don't think she believed me. She stared at my hand and told me: maybe don't write on your hand any more, darling, try something else, a sticky note, or a keychain.
I don't want to buy a new keychain every day, I tell her, and I haven't taken notes in weeks. Why not? There is really no point in it. Don't I want to remember these subjects, math or history or science? All I need to know I've written on my hands. She dismissed me from her office then, mumbling something about a lost cause.
I wonder, if I'd written something different on my hand that day, would she have said that under her breath? Would she have said it at all?
If everyone wrote like I write on my hand, would we act differently around them? Would we choose our words more carefully or avoid certain subjects? Would there be more hugging and laughing or tears and silence? I like to think both. Sometimes silence is necessary. Maybe everyone needs to write on their hands as much as I do. Maybe my counselor should change her recommendations.
I can't bear to think about it too much, though, so I write a final reminder, one more thing before going out into the crowded world where hands don't speak and no one bothers to check anyway. I open my palm and place the cold tip of the thick sharpie on it.
**
FIND YOURSELF.
