by Lindy Zart
Nick laughs, and holds me tighter. “In my gray pants.”
I brush my lips across his neck, and feel him shudder. “I love your gray pants,” I whisper on his skin.
“I know. They’re my signature sex appeal.”
We turn in an unhurried circle as I laugh.
“This is where I tell you that you showed me it’s okay to forgive. This is where I tell you that you made me want to hope. This is where I tell you that I will always love your gray pants.” I grin, feeling his smile against my forehead.
His heartbeat picks up when I tell him what else I love.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
When I was sixteen years old, I went to live with my dad’s parents. It was in a different town, and a new school. Mediocre interest was shown in me at the school, and the unseen barrier was firm. I was not one of them. I did not belong. Naturally quiet, and not all that outgoing, I quickly became invisible. It didn’t help my social status that I wasn’t into sports—sports were major in this school.
But then something changed. I wasn’t invisible anymore. Instead, I was singled out. Mocked. Kids would pretend to be nice, but they were really making fun of me. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. An ugly drawing of me was dropped on my desk in passing; a cutting remark about my car, said with a smile. Someone stating that the lunch I brought from home looked like shit. No one would sit by me. No one would ask me to sit by them.
No one talked to me.
It was like I wasn’t a person.
I’d never been bullied before. Sure, there were minor incidents at school, but nothing to this level of meanness. Nothing that made me wonder why I was even living. I didn’t know how to deal with it.
I lost weight. My skin was washed out, colorless. My smile became forced, and it wasn’t happy. I was slowly dying while living in that atmosphere. It was months of feeling like I’d lost myself, and didn’t know who I was. I would tell my grandparents I was sick, and ask to stay home, just so I wouldn’t have to go to school. And my nerves were frayed to the point that I did feel sick a lot of the time.
I remember crawling into bed with my grandma in the middle of the night, and telling her I wished I was dead. I was crying. She hugged me and told me that, no, I didn’t.
But I did.
I don’t talk about this often. In fact, hardly ever have I spoken about this. Do you know how people react when you tell them you tried to kill yourself? Sometimes, it’s as if you never spoke. They won’t look into your eyes; they might even visibly step back. Like it’s contagious. It’s not something people talk about. Therefore, those of us who have hugged the darkness, and been embraced by it in return; we hide our black secrets. And it makes us feel even more alone.
One morning, the thought of going to school made me panicked to the point that I decided enough was enough. It was destroying me—going there, being there. I was at a breaking point. No, I was broken. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
After my grandparents left for the day, I took my grandpa’s bottle of insulin pills from the kitchen table, and I swallowed them. I don’t know how many, but it was a lot. I was finally going to be done with it.
But then, you see, I became scared. The world was turning gray, and everything was muted, and I was close to passing out.
I called someone—my aunt.
An ambulance came.
I was taken to a hospital.
I had a tube of charcoal shoved down my throat.
I prayed, or I cursed—I’m not sure which. “Oh, God.” That’s what I said.
And I vomited, repeatedly.
I don’t know if I lost consciousness. I think I had to have, at least partially. It’s mostly a blur, like even my brain doesn’t want to remember it. I had to stay in the hospital for days. I can’t remember how many. People came to visit, all to witness the almost death of Lindy.
My sister came, looking stricken, and like she had so many words to say but couldn’t. My little niece wanted to be held, and when I complied, she pulled at the tubes connected to me. She didn’t understand what was going on. I remember an aunt, different from the one I called, bringing me a penny with an angel shape cut out of it, and I carry that angel penny with me to this day. It’s on the keychain to my vehicle—has been for over twenty years.
I had to go to counseling. The counselor was kind. I liked her. When she asked me what I would do if I had to go back to that school, I told her I would run away. I meant it.
I was allowed to finish the remainder of the school year from home; I had to hand in projects every so often. I wasn’t left alone. All the pills were out of sight. You see, I wasn’t to be trusted after that, and I understand that. I understood it then. I was a liability. The unstable girl who tried to kill herself. I knew they feared I would do it again. But I wouldn’t. Not after that. Because I realized something.
It takes more courage to live than it does to die.
More than anything, I was ashamed. That I didn’t deal with what was going on in a healthier way. That I let a group of insensitive kids destroy my value of myself. That I forgot who I was. That I wasn’t strong enough to fight back. I’m grateful that I was given another chance at this ugly life, and I don’t regret learning how sacred it is. Ironic, right? I could have died. And I didn’t. I’m here until I’m not, and I have no say in it. As it should be.
I’m telling you all of this, because that is where this story came from—from me, and my time at a school where I was treated like dirt. Based on fact, with fiction morphing it into something more than just the sad story of a bullied girl.
I hope you aren’t bullied. I pray you aren’t a bully. I want you to know that if you’re suicidal, you can make another choice. You can choose to live. You can talk to someone, even a stranger. Even me. I hope you know that every life is worth something. If you need help, and you feel like you have no one, call the phone number below. There is always someone.
Lindy
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255
If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review on the site from where you bought it. If you did not enjoy this book, please consider leaving a review on the site from where you bought it. Keep it classy—all hateful posts will be framed and hung on a wall in my home for my kids to read. Please don’t traumatize my kids.
Lindy
Acknowledgements:
Tiffany Alfson, Jen Andrews, Jacinda Owen, Kendra Gaither, Megan Stietz: Thank you for being my beta readers for ‘bullies like me’. Hugs and love!
Thank you, Wendi Stitzer, for editing once again! You’re great.
Sarah from Sprinkles On Top Studios—the cover is epic, and it epically goes along with the story. Thank you.
About the author:
Lindy Zart is the USA Today bestselling author of Roomies. She has been writing since she was a child. Luckily for readers, her writing has improved since then. She lives in Wisconsin with her family. Lindy loves hearing from people who enjoy her work. She also has a completely healthy obsession with the following: coffee, wine, bloody marys, peanut butter, and pizza.
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