Game of Glass

TW: Self-harm, mention of substance abuse, themes of mental health

I lived in a small, suburban town on the edge of Manhattan, with my grandmother and two siblings, Conrad and Ruby. We didn’t know our parents very well; we were adopted by Nan when we were seven (me), six (Ruby), and eight (Conrad). Besides, we were in and out of foster care almost our entire lives. We were all born and had knowledge of our existence. But we probably all regret that we were then capable of remembering things. The stuff that went down in one foster home, The Porters, changed us all forever.

“Hey, Conrad, where the heck did you put my notebook?” I asked Conrad, who was planted down in front of his gaming console. “You mean your diary?” He said, waggling his eyebrows at me. He was eighteen, and I was seventeen.

“Shut up,” I said, staring him down. He had the prettiest amber eyes, and they entranced every single girl in Winchester. Maybe even me, but I was God forsaken sister.

“I won’t tell you, Willow. It’s not my secret to tell,”

“Are you saying that Ruby took it?”

“Maybe,”

“I’m going to skin her alive if she did!”

I raced up the creaking stairs to Ruby’s room. “Hey, Rub, did you by any chance see who took my notebook?” I asked, easing my way onto her colorful carpet. “Nah, sorry,” She said, innocence painted all over her face. “It’s alright,” I said, and I could see the tip of her ears getting red. It was her signature move when she lied.

“Besides,” she said, “why would I take your notebook? All it has is vents from you. I don’t want to know what your mind looks like, Willow, it sounds scary,”

I could feel weird teardrops forming in my eyes; my throat tightened. I didn’t cry. Willow Marie Hunt did not cry.

“Why-why would you think that?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“Do you really want to know?” She said, getting off of her bed with the periwinkle sheets.

“Of course I do,” I said as she closed her door. She patted the space next to her on her bed, and I slipped onto her bed.

“I know your mind is a scary place because I saw the pills.”

“What pills?”

“You know what pills, Willow. Nan got them every month at the CVS down the road. I can’t remember the exact scientific name of the pills, but I got curious and looked them up. Antidepressants.”

“Oh. Then why do you say that my mind is a scary place?”

“Because before the pills appeared, I saw the glass, Willow.”

We stayed quiet for what seemed like ages.

“I-I saw the cuts on your thighs,” She said, a fat tear dripping down her cheek, simmering down to her neck. “I saw how you weren’t eating. I saw how you would cry yourself to sleep every night. I saw how you would suck in your stomach. I saw how you weighed yourself everyday. I could hear you drowning, Willow,”

I then allowed myself to feel. To cry. To lean into a sixteen-year-old. She could see me drowning; the whole time.

We sat in tears, her boat slowly anchoring me up from the bottom of the sea.

I found my notebook later, in my closet, with a note attached to it. It was from Nan.

“Dear Willow,” it read, “I took this from you a while ago. I read it, and I regret reading it. It was an immature invasion of your privacy. But it was the only reason I knew what was happening. I heard you and Ruby earlier. I figured it was time for you to know. About this happening, yes, but also about what really happened to your parents. Conrad and Ruby don’t know, but you should never have to reach a crisis to let us know that you are suffering. Never.

“Melanie Hunt was your mother. Miles Robbins was your father. Or, at least we think he is. You should know by now that finding that out was rather complicated. Anyway, Conrad was born first, and then you, and then Ruby. All the same mother and father, we think. All of the paternity tests were positive for Miles, so that’s that. But they both eventually fell in love with other people, and separated when Conrad was just five.

“You and your siblings were placed into foster care after Melanie’s then boyfriend tried to hurt her and you, but in Melanie’s mind, hurt was love. She was a little bit like you. You don’t remind me of her at all, but she had faced a few of the same obstacles. You know what I mean, I’m certain. But how Melanie met those boys, she talked to strangers. Used God forbidden dating apps, or just asked out random people whom she found attraction to.

“So, I know Melanie made a few bad choices, and I know you’ve probably been told this multiple times- but never, under any circumstances talk to strangers. Look at how Melanie turned out. And another thing, I want you to get better. I know you can get better. You just have to try, Willow, my love. Conrad, Ruby, and I will always be here for you.

"Love, Nan.”

I read the letter over and over again, and my fingers started to tremble in a foreign, scary way. The whole time, Nan called my mother Melanie, never ‘your mother’ or anything like that. Just Melanie. It was odd, but I figured that Nan had moved on, and no longer considered Melanie my mother.

It’s not like I did, either.

“Conrad, did you really know anything about Melanie?” I said, walking into Conrad’s room. “No, Willow,” he said, “If I did, I would tell you. All I know is that she chose some crappy people to be with, and that she kind of abandoned us when she became clean.”

“Became clean?” I asked, my curiosity sparking.

“Yeah; when she was with Boyfriend- capital B- number, like, eighteen, she took up both smoking and drinking. She went to the rehab that the social workers provided, but eventually she became clean. I tried to get in touch with Ana a few years ago because I was interested in Melanie, and she said that Melanie’s been in rehab and hasn’t touched a man since; apparently."

I looked over my shoulder, to make sure that Nan wasn't around, and whispered, "Damn." Conrad's ears went red and he whispered, "Is Nan around? If she heard you say that, you'd be fried!" I giggled and he powered off his game console. Nan had a strict no-cursing policy in her house, and if you were caught cursing, heavy punishment awaited you. But, me, Conrad, and Ruby found loopholes: fudge, dang, a-hole, butt-head, shoot, jerk, and et cetera.

That night, Nan looked at me like I was fragile, and that she was scared to lose her little perfect Willow. Or at least, she thought I was perfect. Nan didn't think much about my downs (and there were a lot of them) until she caught a glimpse of my thighs when I was shaving, a habit I did at around midnight in my room. Then, she got rid of all the broken glass, got me a prescription, and watched over me like a hawk every day, like she was scared I would do it again.

Dr. Hayes, my therapist, said that when people like me hurt themselves, they usually thought that it would help them lose weight; help them become what they really wanted to be- which was usually skinny and flat-stomached. But cutting didn't help any of that, never in a million years. If anything, she said, it weakened your body and it didn't work out in any way you could have predicted- because there is no prediction when it comes to self-harm.

Last summer, during the pills, therapy sessions four times a week, and weekly doctor's appointments, I had gotten labels. Many, many labels.

Anorexia.

Depression.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Anxiety.

When I was labeled, Dr. Hayes said that the labels weren't anything to be afraid of. That being labeled with a 'disorder' didn't diminish you in any way, and that they didn't stop you from becoming anything you wanted to be. That there was life after the brokenness, the darkness.

But no matter how much her words tried to envelope me in a warm hug, I still had my brain.

Still had what Ruby called 'a scary place'.

But the pills make my mind blur, and alcohol helps. I can't be a good girl anymore. People say that alcohol, vodka, and cigarettes help calm the voices down. People say that when life goes to hell, turn the music up.

I listened to People.

Poor Nan, she didn't know what had become of her sweet, innocent Willow.

Conrad never would, he always pictured me as a reliable younger sister. Not perfect, but not drowning.

Ruby might know. I've heard her, too. But her cuts aren't physical, thank God. She can't turn out like her older sister did. She will not become like I did.

You see, after the Summer of pills, therapy, appointments, labels, and writing, I didn't go back to being like I was. I was still sad, per usual, but I didn't really try. At least that's what Dr. Hayes said when she noticed me staring at my thighs, stomach, and neck.

"Willow, I want you to take this, and keep it. I'm never trying to be mean, but I want you to at least try to get better. I don't think you are trying to get better. I don't want you to have to go to a hospital, Willow. You're lucky the cuts didn't run that deep. Just try, okay?" Dr. Hayes had said.

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick and punch Dr. Hayes. She talked like I was just another therapy girl, a mess-up, a waste of space and time. Maybe I was.

My words are like the iceberg that sunk the Titanic.

What I say is: "Okay, I'll try," In that small, broken girl voice. But what I want to say is: "It's not that easy, woman! I am trying, I am trying! Shut up and let me sit here in awkward silence and elevator music, with crying parents and burnt-out kids in the therapy lobby!" What I do is: sit with my legs crossed, picking at a scab on my thigh. What I want to do is: get up and punch Dr. Hayes, then a hole in the wall. Then the shopping clerk who looks at me and smiles sadly. For anybody who has ever given me sympathy.

Everybody expected me to get better, but to become better in the process. Dr. Hayes, Nan, Ruby, Conrad, Ana, nurses, doctors. They all expected me to live a good life afterwards.

None of them expected me to do what I did later.

Nan, of all people, was hit the hardest. I directly disobeyed her.

"Willow, honey?" Nan said, calling through my closed door.

"Yeah? You can come in if you need to," I said.

"Willow, my love, I have two things for you. Well, three, really."

"Spill, Nan,"

"One: Dr. Hayes called and said to ask if the meds were working, and if you were trying. Two: I found a pack of cigarettes in the garbage can out back. You know what happened to Grandpa when he smoked. Bless his late heart. And more importantly, if there's anything you want to tell me, or to talk about, I'm always open. And three: did you take your pills?"

"One: Yep, my brain's fuzzy as usual. I'm tired too, if that was a goal. Sleep to escape my thoughts? Smart. Two: those were Conrad's. Not mine. I know about Grandpa. I don't have anything to tell you. I tell everything to my notebook, Nan. Three: yes, I did. All two of them."

"Alright, well, I love you. Goodnight, my wonderful Willow,"

"Love you too, Nan. Goodnight."

Nan excited my room, stage left, and closed my door with a hesitant creak at the end. So, she'd finally found the cigarettes. I hid the bottles better, but Nan would never suspect my loved headphones. I was a party-goer now. I was cool now. I was the girl who everybody feared and respected at the same time. I was the girl who went to parties and hooked up with unsuspecting guys. I was a new girl. I was the girl who flirted with teachers, who was secretly really good at school.

My new popular friends- Eva and Paisley, would never know that just a few years ago, I was the girl who cut herself. The girl who had disorders; mental illnesses. Then I switched schools and I gained a new reputation. Nobody saw my thighs. People envied my body, when I envied theirs.

Eva and Paisley complained about their lives, annoying siblings, and math homework. They envied Conrad, because 'he's so freaking hot, you lucky duck,'. I was that one cool senior who underclassmen looked up to, and who the teachers paid respect to. I was everything I had envisioned when I was trapped in the Summer of pills, therapy, appointments, labels, and writing.

I brought all the beer and cranberry vodkas to parties, and Nan thought I was sleeping over with Eva and Paisley. I passed joints around with my friend group and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, Archer. We were both only in it for the hooking up, and we both knew it.

Poor Ruby, she became one like me. All emotional cuts; she couldn't even touch glass or a lighter or a knife, but she was drowning. I heard what she heard all those days ago. Back when I wasn't like I am now.

Back when I was fragile.

Now I creep into her room at night and cradle her fragile, frail body and whisper into her ears as she trembles and cries and slowly falls asleep.

She doesn't need to try, I will carry her; I will do all the heavy lifting. Even though I live a life where the texts I get from my friends and lover are: 'hey, you bringing the drinks?' and 'parents aren't home this weekend...' and 'babe, meet me at midnight. bring vodka and cigs'. Two from Eva and Paisley, one from Archer. You can guess which ones are from who.

Because in the world I live in, the sick, twisted, reality, I will never be the same. This me has been etched into my soul forever, and it won't let go- no matter how hard Ruby and Nan and Dr. Hayes and Conrad try to pry it away from me.

For we are all little glass chess figures in this giant game of glass.