Silence, Part 2
part one
* * *
It’s Saturday. Saturday means he can hide away in his room in the dark all day and not have to see his friends and family worry over him. Saturday means his dad works late, and he doesn’t have to force himself to eat or pretend that he’s fine.
Saturday is safe.
He boots up his computer and logs onto the internet, hesitating before typing three words into the search box. I cut myself.
Unsurprisingly, the results are full of people panicking because they accidentally cut themselves and were too stupid to know how to take care of it. He frowns, and after a moment’s thought, modifies his query to I cut myself on purpose.
He doesn’t even really know what exactly he’s looking for. He just knows he’s tired of feeling alone in this, and knows he isn’t ready to go to his friends or his dad. Online strangers seem like the next best idea. He wants to know that he’s not the only one crazy enough to hurt himself on purpose.
This time, he gets results. Among the several sites that pop up, one word in particular sticks out: self-harm.
He isn’t alone in this.
He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and clicks on a link that’s titled Why Do I Self-Harm?
He spends an hour reading, learning how just not alone he is in his behaviour. He even finds a web board filled with people that cut themselves, just like he does. So many of them hurting, so many of them looking for a way to make the pain go away. All of them just looking for support and affirmation.
He considers making a post of his own, but in the end he chickens out. He isn’t quite sure yet what he’d say. ‘Hi, I’m Yamato and I cut myself because I feel empty inside after being ...’
The unfinished thought makes him flinch, even when it’s inside his own head.
He jabs at the monitor, turning it off. He’s suddenly angry. He gets back into bed, pulling the covers over him.
When his phone goes off with Taichi’s tone, he ignores it.
* * *
Saturday night he wakes from yet another countless nightmare, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s got the blade out and hovering over a cleaner patch of pale thigh when the web board he’d been on that afternoon flashes through his mind.
One topic had been titled “Things to Do When You’re Trying to Stop.”
As odd as it sounds, the thought of stopping hadn’t crossed his mind until he’d read that.
It’s weird, but part of him likes it. He hates himself every time he slices up his skin, and he knows his dad or friends wouldn’t approve, but it helps, at least a little. The feelings don’t go away for long, but that instantaneous rush of relief he gets with the first cut is always amazing.
It’s almost addicting.
Ten minutes later he’s breathing heavy from anger and staring blankly at the large open gash in his thigh. There’s a small puddle of blood forming on his sheets. He doesn’t know how he’ll hide it from his dad.
* * *
Sunday afternoon he navigates his way back to the web board. He spends awhile reading other peoples’ stories, all the while thinking about his own.
Eventually he clicks on the create a new topic button. He stares at the white text box for awhile, not knowing what to say. He’s spent more than a month not telling people that even thinking about telling strangers on the web makes him anxious.
He doesn’t want to keep it a secret any longer.
Eventually he starts typing.
* * *
Hi everyone. I am new here. I am 16 years old and from Japan, so my English may not be so great. I found this place yesterday and spent awhile reading... I feel that I can relate to many of you, and the things everyone writes.
I started hurting myself about a month and half ago. It started out as an accident. But it made my numbness go away. And the bad feelings...
I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only person mental enough to hurt myself on purpose, and like it. But when I searched the web I found this board and realised I was not alone. Everyone here does it too.
A bad thing happened two months ago. I do not want to talk about it here. I am not ready. I can not tell anyone in my life yet either, though I want to. I am just scared. I don’t know why. My dad and my friends are worried a lot about me. I wish I could tell them, but I do not know how...
I have many lines all over my arms and legs, and even my stomach a bit. I never thought about stopping until I came here yesterday. I do not think I want to stop yet.
That is it for now. I hope no one minds my posting.
* * *
He shuts the computer down once he posts and doesn’t look at it for three days.
* * *
“You never returned my call,” Taichi says, jabbing him in the side with a finger.
He looks at the hurt frown on Taichi’s face and the shadow of a bruise on his cheek and lies. “What call?”
“I called you Saturday, on your cell. I left a voicemail when you didn’t pick up.”
“Oh,” he says, “I didn’t look at my cell all weekend. Sorry.”
Taichi looks doubtful at this, but doesn’t say anything.
“Was it important?” he tries, not wanting his best friend to be mad at him.
Taichi shakes his head and turns away. “Not really.”
He wants to reply, to say something to make it better, but their teacher comes in, so he shuts his mouth and doesn’t say a word.
He spends the lecture wondering why Taichi’s cheek is bruised.
* * *
After school he goes home and listens to the voicemail.
Hey, it’s Taichi, guess you’re not there... Call me back when you get this? It’s not important, I just really wanted to come over and hang out for awhile, being home is... driving me crazy. It doesn’t matter. Call me back soon!
There’s a tremor in Taichi’s voice he recognises. It’s the way his voice always sounds when he’s trying hard not to cry but not always doing so well.
Fuck.
He rings Taichi back immediately, wondering how he let himself get so caught up in his own problems that he stopped being a friend.
He supposes he deserves it when Taichi doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t leave a voicemail.
* * *
When he goes to school the next day, he discovers the band is mad at him. Ny especially. He’s ditched the last four practises they’ve held.
“Are you quitting?” Ny demands.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says softly.
“Then why have you been avoiding practise?”
He feels desperate. He doesn’t know what to tell them; he has no answer for them. He wants to go to practise.
But every time he thinks about it, the afterparty flashes in his mind.
It had been such a great live. They’d all performed wonderfully, he’d sang his heart out. He’d been so pumped afterward, filled with the rush of a job well done. Adrenaline was coursing through him at high speed and then he’d poured alcohol on top of it.
He never even realised he’d been followed until the door locked behind them.
He feels a lump in his throat. He wonders if Ny even realised there was anything wrong with him that night.
“Yamato?”
The hands on his wrist, the weight on top of his chest. He can smell the alcohol on his own breath when the stranger shoves fingers in his mouth and forces it open. He hears harsh breathing and it takes him a moment to realise it’s his own.
“Yamato?”
He blinks. The moment from that night is gone.
Ratsuii’s staring at him, looking concerned. Something salty hits his lips, and he realises he’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and then he flees.
* * *
The sink is smeared with red.
He touches a finger to it, noting it’s dry. He looks down then and sees rust-coloured droplets spattered all over the floor. There aren’t any new marks on his thighs, nor any large wounds, but both his arms are sporting numerous angry slashes, and the blood on them is just as smeared as the sink.
His dad is knocking on the door, calling his name in a worried tone.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. He blinks and tries to speak, his voice catching. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Out in a few minutes,” he manages, and looks around again. It’s enough to temporarily placate his dad.
Quickly he turns the water on, running it hot. He tackles the sink first, and then the floor, working fast and erasing any traces of his blood. Once that’s done, he turns his attention to his arms. The hot water makes the new cuts sting.
He wonders how he got so messed up that he likes the pain.
When he finally flips off the light and exits the bathroom, making sure his sleeves are pulled all the way down, his dad is standing in the hallway waiting for him, a worried look on his face.
“I was calling your name for almost ten minutes,” he says, eyes flicking down to the sleeves that Yamato has tightly wrapped his fingers around.
“I fell asleep,” he says, and ducks around his dad into the dark of his bedroom.
“Yamato-” his dad begins, no doubt ready to spew more stern words of lecture interlaced with concern, but he shuts the door, enclosing himself in the darkness.
The dark is safe.
* * *
He finds out the remnants of the bruise on Taichi’s cheek came from an errant soccer ball during Taichi’s last practise. Taichi still won’t tell him what that voicemail had been about, however.
He knows he really does deserve it. He’s been a shitty friend lately.
But at least Taichi’s still talking to him, unlike Ny.
* * *
He doesn’t check on his post for a week. When he does, he’s floored to see there are about fifteen replies. He honestly hadn’t expected any.
He reads through them slowly, blinking back tears at how nice everyone’s responses are. They all express sympathy for him, and understanding of where he’s at in his head right now. Some offer up their own stories. No one says anything negative, or tells him he should stop. No one even asks what his “bad thing” is, though a few offer to be a listening ear if he ever wants to talk about it.
He feels overwhelmed.
He stares at the responses for a moment longer, then powers down the computer and crawls in bed. He can’t bring himself to respond to anyone right now.
* * *
Takeru shows up unannounced at the apartment the afternoon after he reads his responses. Yamato’s alone, as his dad’s still at work. He thinks about ignoring the door until Takeru goes away, but he knows how stubborn his brother can be.
“Yamato! Let me in!” he calls, pounding on the door, and Yamato groans. He gets up from where he’d been sitting mindlessly on the couch and lets his little brother in.
As soon as his brother’s in, he goes back to the couch and collapses on it once more. Takeru stands in front of it, arms folded across his chest and a serious look on his face. “Everyone’s worried about you,” he states bluntly.
He glances briefly at his brother, and then continues to stare at the ceiling. He knows everyone is worried about him.
“Yamato!” Takeru insists, but he doesn’t look over at him this time.
“I’m fine,” he eventually says.
“You’re not,” Takeru snaps. “Everyone can see that. And you told Dad you weren’t.”
He simply shrugs.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” his brother says.
He can’t deal with this right now. He knows his brother is worried and just wants to help, but right now all he feels is annoyance. He just wants Takeru to go away and leave him alone. He can’t ever imagine himself telling Takeru about what happened to him.
He stares blankly at his brother for a moment, and then gets off the couch and goes into his room, shutting the door and locking it.
There’s a minute or so of silence, then Takeru’s stunned voice yells “Yamato!” at him from the other room. He ignores it and lays down on his bed to stare at that ceiling instead. Eventually he falls asleep.
When he wakes back up again, Takeru is gone.
* * *
Two days later, he and Taichi get into a fight. If one could even really call it that.
He’d dreamed in the night again, of the fingers and the weight and the lights, of his head knocking against the headboard, of choking and breathing through his nose. Of the white staining his lips, and of the smell that, oddly enough, faintly resembled raw pancake batter.
He hadn’t been able to eat lunch.
“Not hungry again?” Taichi had asked him, sighing.
He’d silently shaken his head. He’d expected Taichi to grudgingly accept his answer, as he’d been doing for the past couple of months.
Apparently, however, Taichi had reached his breaking point.
“Of course you’re not,” he snapped. “You never are anymore. Just like you never talk anymore either! But of course you’re fine! It’s not like you’ve lost weight or anything, you’re fine after all. It’s not like you avoid your band, and your brother, and your friends! You’re totally fine! Who needs to eat anyway, right? Why don’t you just starve yourself to death then? You’ll be fine!”
He had found he could only stare at his best friend with wide eyes and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been uncomfortably reminded of the Taichi in his nightmares.
He had wanted to throw up. He’d wanted to say something, to tell Taichi he wasn’t fine, that something was wrong with him and he didn’t know how to fix it. He wanted Taichi to help him.
“I...”
Like always, the words had stuck in his throat.
Taichi hadn’t bothered to stick around. He’d simply shaken his head in disgust before getting up and storming off. Yamato had sat silently and let him go.
* * *
Thank you everyone for the many kind words. I don’t feel alone as much to know everyone else has gone through similar things.
Today was a bad day. My best friend got mad at me when I was at school today. He wants to know the “bad thing” that happened. He doesn’t know for sure that there is a “bad thing” but he knows something is wrong. I had many bad dreams last night, and I was not able to eat today. He became angry and said things he did not mean, and will not talk to me now.
I really want to tell him but when I try, nothing happens. I say “I” but the other words get stuck in my mouth.
I hurt myself a lot today. I wish I could tell one person who knows me.
* * *
He posts the reply to his thread but doesn’t leave the board, instead surfing through others’ posts of sorrow and offering a few condolences of his own. His thighs and stomach ache from the abuse he’d heaped on them earlier.
He barely notices it over the ache in his heart.
An hour later, just as he’s about to turn off the computer and go back to bed, his thread gets a new reply.
* * *
Hi lovemusic16. First off, I’ve just read both of your posts and I’m sorry to hear that you are struggling so much with self-harm. But I understand that you’re not ready to stop, and won’t suggest it. Of course it is not the healthiest coping method, but what many people who lack experience with it don’t seem to understand is that, even though it’s not the best thing, it’s what’s keeping you alive and sane right now. It’s what’s enabling you to get through whatever your “bad thing” is.
If you don’t mind, I would like to share my own story. I’m a male, 23 now, and when I was 15, I was raped. He was 19, and the brother of one of my friends from school. I had never met him before, as he had been away at college overseas since I’d known my friend, but he’d managed to come home for the holidays that year. I had spent the evening at my friend’s house hanging out, and when I realised how late it had gotten and how mad my parents would be, he offered to give me a ride home.
I didn’t think anything of accepting. I figured my friend’s brother would be trustworthy. But he wasn’t.
He didn’t take me home at first. He drove me to an empty parking lot of an abandoned building and locked me in with him, setting the child safety locks so I couldn’t get out. He placated me by offering for us to crawl in the backseat and smoke a quick joint. I’d never smoked weed before, so even though I was anxious to get home, I figured I’d just smoke real quick and then we could go. After a bit, the weed had successfully gotten me a bit high, and I realised his hands were undoing my belt. I remember looking down in confusion, but before I could say anything about it, he was kissing me.
It’s been eight years now, and I still can’t forget that night, as much as I’ve wished to over the years. I’m not going to go into the details, but he raped me that night in the back of his car, ignoring my crying and begging pleas of no. It couldn’t have been more than seven or eight minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Afterwards, he used an old towel lying on the floorboards to wipe away my blood, and told me to get dressed. Then he took me home.
I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to. I felt ashamed of myself, and disgusted. I couldn’t properly process what had happened to me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of the emotions. I started cutting myself, wherever I could manage. Mostly my arms, sometimes my legs. I began wearing long sleeves to hide the marks. I became very depressed, and withdrew from my family and friends. I only talked when necessary, and rarely ate or slept. Everyone knew something was wrong, but no one knew what. They would try and try to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. I got worse and worse.
A year after it happened, I tried to kill myself. Cutting only helped so much, and I was drowning under the weight of all the emotions I was constantly trying to deal with. I was rushed to the hospital, and my family found out about my self-harm. Even then, I still couldn’t tell them the truth, so they stuck me in a mental hospital. It was a miserable experience. My family paid for me to stay there three months. After the first month, I learned enough of what they wanted to temporarily stop cutting and pretend I was better, so that I could get released. But I wasn’t better. I began cutting within a week of my release. I wasn’t ready to stop. My parents found out, and took away all my “tools” and placed so many restrictions on me and were constantly watching me to make sure I couldn’t harm myself. I hated it, and I couldn’t cope with all my emotions. So the first chance I had, I attempted to kill myself for the second time.
To make a long story a bit shorter, I went through years of cycling through self-harm, suicide attempts, and mental hospitals before I began to get better. Once I was 18, my parents couldn’t stick me in the hospitals anymore, or control my self-harm. I moved out and rented an apartment with the one friend I’d had left. I was 19 before I finally trusted him enough to tell him my secret. It was one of the most freeing feelings I’d ever experienced. Yet I was 20 before I sought therapy. Even now at 23, I’m only just beginning to really recover from what happened to me, and stop self-harming and put my life together.
I guess, what I’m trying to tell you with all this, is that I wish I had told someone sooner. Telling someone did wonders for finally putting me on the path towards getting help, and not hating myself, and learning to deal with the things I was feeling. It helped me want to stop scarring up my skin, and eventually helped me to actually stop. I’ve finally started feeling “normal” again, and even happy at times. I don’t have bad dreams as much anymore. I’m hungry again, and talking to people. My life has gotten so much better since I’ve opened up.
I don’t know what your “bad thing” is that happened. You don’t have to tell me, or anyone on here, or even anyone in your life if you really don’t want to. But I hope that you’ll at least consider telling someone. Maybe an online friend, or someone you’re not as close to, or maybe even a therapist if you think you want to do that. It’s easier when you aren’t as worried about being judged.
Regardless of what you do, I’m sorry for the things you’re going through. I’m sorry your friend got mad at you and isn’t talking to you. A lot of my friends eventually did the same to me, and it only made me feel more lonely and depressed. I hope things turn out better for you than they did for me. I’ll be checking your thread every once in a while to see how you’re doing. Hang in there!
* * *
He cries for a long time after reading the reply.
Out of all the people in the previous replies that had shared their stories with him, this person is the first one to share a story of a situation similar to his. And the likeness to his own reactions isn’t lost on him.
He just wishes he knew how to tell someone.
* * *
Taichi doesn’t apologise to him for three days. He endures them silently, stoically, even though his heart is aching. He is terrified Taichi won’t ever speak to him again, that he’s fed up with him and giving up on him.
His arms gain a lot of new marks.
At last, at the end of the third day, Taichi approaches him as he’s packing up to go home.
“Yamato. I’m sorry,” Taichi says.
His hand stills in its motions, textbook still halfway out of his bag. He doesn’t look up.
“I’m worried about you,” Taichi continues bluntly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you the other day, but I know something’s wrong. I wish you would talk to me, tell me what’s bothering you. I want to help you.”
“I...”
“You what?”
Yamato shakes his head. He just can’t.
After a moment of silence, Taichi sighs. “Come on then,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
The next time he checks his computer, there’s an email from Mimi.
He and Mimi had started emailing a month or so after they’d saved the Digital World a second time. Over the past couple of years, he’s become pretty good friends with her. He’s still best friends with Taichi, of course, but sometimes he finds it easier to tell her things than Taichi.
He hasn’t emailed her since that Thursday night.
Swallowing, he opens it up and begins to read.
* * *
Hey Yamato! How are you doing? You never answered my last email, and it’s been a couple of months now... Is everything okay? Taichi didn’t say much, but he mentioned he was worried about you. Sora and Koushiro said something too. You know you can always talk to me, right? I won’t tell any of the other Chosen. No judgement. Write me back please!
Mimi ♥
* * *
He stares at the email for a long time. His mind feels blank.
He doesn’t know what to do.
* * *
He begins to use the web forum more frequently over the next few days. It’s so much easier to pour out his thoughts and feelings to complete strangers that have been in a similar place, even if he sometimes get frustrated by his English.
Everyone that responds to him always has something sympathetic or encouraging to say. Several people try to convince him to tell someone in his “real life” what’s bothering him, or about whatever happened to him.
He starts private messaging the guy whose situation was similar to his own, the one that had left him such a long response. He never comes out and admits what happened to him, but the questions he asks probably make the guy-whose name is Alex-suspect the truth.
Alex manages to give him a suggestion that no one else does. He says to write a letter to whoever he wants to tell the truth to. This way, he’s still telling someone, but the pressure is off to have to actually say the words to their face and see their immediate reaction.
The more Yamato thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. He thinks about the last response Mimi sent him. Mimi is far away in America. And an email is a lot like a letter.
* * *
When he comes back to himself in the middle of the night some days later, tightly clutching his knife, skin smeared with red and the echoing remnants of his nightmare ringing in his ears, he knows what to do.
He doesn’t bother to clean up. He just sets his knife aside and quietly creeps over to the computer, not wanting to wake his dad.
The sound of the computer booting up and then dialing into the internet seems so loud in the silence of the night. He winces, and listens anxiously for any sign of his dad waking.
He hears nothing.
Eventually he’s settled in front of his screen, trying to ignore how bright it seems in the dark of his room, Mimi’s email open in front of him. He hits the ‘reply’ button and begins to type.
* * *
Hi Mimi... Sorry I didn’t respond to your last email sooner. The truth is... everything is not okay. I know everyone is worried about me. I want to tell Taichi, have tried to tell him, but every time, the words seem to get stuck in my throat.
I’m not fine.
That is what is wrong with me. I’m not fine. I barely eat. I’ve lost a ton of weight. My dad has threatened to stick me in the hospital several times. I also don’t sleep well anymore. I have nightmares a lot, and wake up choking or crying. I can’t stand bright light anymore. I spend a lot of time in the dark.
There are other things, too, other secrets I still want to keep. I know I’m not alone, though. I found a web board, with other people like me. It’s in English, but I still post there some. It helps a little.
I can’t stand to go to band practise anymore. It reminds me too much of that Thursday night. The night everything changed, and I felt like I stopped really living. My bandmates are all worried about me too, and mad that I’ve skipped practise and won’t tell them what’s going on.
If I tell you, please don’t think badly of me... I wish I hadn’t let it happen. I wish I could have done something.
Do you remember the last email I sent you, telling you about the live I had?
Well, the live was great. It went so well, I was so excited and happy. But the band had a party afterwards at Nyusumi’s house. A bunch of fans were there. I got drunk. I didn’t even really mean to. I was just having a good time, riding the adrenaline of a successful live, drinking along with everyone else. I didn’t realise how drunk I really was until I stood up.
The party was mostly outside and in Ny’s guest house. I went in, looking for the bathroom. It’s off the one bedroom. It wasn’t until the door was shut and locked behind me that I realised someone had followed me into the bedroom. He pinned me to the bed. I tried to fight, but I was so drunk... At one point he hit my head and then I couldn’t manage to fight anymore.
The lights on the ceiling were really bright.
I threw up a lot afterwards. There was blood. I wanted a shower. I wanted to wash him away. I wanted to get clean again.
I still haven’t been able to.
So... that’s it. I’m not fine. I don’t know what to do.
Yamato
* * *
He’s crying by the time he finishes, silent tears sliding down his cheeks to land on his hands. Even just that little bit dredges up every horrible memory of that night. He feels dirty, and worthless.
He lets the pointer hover over the ‘send’ button for quite a while. Now that he’s written it out, he’s uncertain if he wants to send it, to finally have someone else know.
A noise out in the hallway has him panicking. His dad is getting up to use the bathroom.
Quickly, before he can think about it anymore, he clicks the send button, and then jabs at the monitor to turn it off. He’s back in bed pretending to sleep by the time his dad pokes his head through the partially open door to quietly check on him.
When his dad leaves again a moment later, he lets out a shaky breath. Now Mimi will know.
He can only hope she won’t be disgusted by him.
* * *
Twenty minutes after sending the email, his cell rings.
He bolts upright in bed, lunging at the bedside table where he keeps it, and turns it on silent. Only then does he look at the display.
It’s Mimi.
He takes a confused moment to wonder why she’s calling him at two in the morning, and then remembers it’s around three in the afternoon in America.
He continues to stare at the display. His heart beats a little faster in anxiety. He doesn’t want to answer it.
It rings several times before she gives up and the screen darkens. He doesn’t set it down. Instead he waits, tense, for her to try again.
A few minutes later the screen lights up again, this time letting him know he’s got an email.
He sighs, and creeps back over to the monitor, turning it back on.
* * *
Yamato, I know you’re there. I know it’s the middle of the night for you, but you only sent your email maybe half an hour ago, if that. I’m not looking to make you talk about it, and I’m not judging you at all, but I’d like to talk to you for just a minute or two. Please? I want you to hear me say this and hear the sincerity in my voice. Please pick up.
Mimi
* * *
He doesn’t know why, but the email makes him start crying again.
True to her word, his cell begins to silently ring again a couple of minutes after he reads the email.
He lets it ring for a bit, not sure if he wants to answer. He looks at the email again.
Wiping away a few tears, he flips open the phone. He doesn’t say ‘hello.’
“Yamato?”
More tears slide down his cheeks. He’s suddenly terrified. He can’t believe he’s actually told someone.
“Yamato, I can hear you breathing.” She lets out a little half-laugh, though it doesn’t sound all that amused. “Sorry, I just realised that sounded a little creepy.”
Still he says nothing. There’s a lump in his throat. It’s not unlike the one that appears when he tries to tell Taichi.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk. Just listen. Yamato... thank you for trusting me. I’m glad you consider me a good enough friend to tell me such a secret. I’m so sorry something like that happened to you. I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it must have been. But I do know that you didn’t deserve it.”
Her voice sounds both pained and sympathetic. He bites his lip to stifle the sudden threatening sobs and grips the phone tightly.
“Even if you were drunk that night, no one had the right to violate you like that. No one ever has the right to hurt you in such a way. It wasn’t your fault, Yamato. I hope you don’t blame yourself, and I want you to know that I don’t think any less of you for what happened.”
His fingers relax ever so slightly.
She continues on, oblivious to the emotional turmoil her words are putting him through, though he’s thankful for them just the same. “If you ever want to talk, you can always call me, or have me call you, okay? Call anytime, I’m always available to listen.”
She falls silent then. He sits there a moment, breathing deeply and trying to calm down. The knot in his throat loosens. He parts his lips.
“Thanks,” he says softly, and hangs up.
* * *
When he wakes back up Saturday morning, there’s another email from Mimi.
He merely looks at it, heart pounding, too afraid to open it. What if she changed her mind from last night and now decides she hates him after all?
He shuts the computer down and stares at the dark screen blankly until his dad knocks on his door.
“Yamato? Are you okay?” His dad sounds confused.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
“Come eat breakfast? I got some take away.”
He shakes his head. He’s not hungry. His stomach is a giant knot of nerves.
Behind him, he hears his dad sigh, and then the door shuts.
He’s alone in the room. With a shaking hand, he reaches out and boots up the computer again.
* * *
Yamato... I know I talked to you last night, but I wanted to say it again, so you know for sure. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry something like that happened to you. That’s awful. You didn’t deserve it. I really do hope that you don’t blame yourself, though your words suggest otherwise... But even if you were drunk, it was not your fault. No one has the right to hurt you in such a way.
I know it has to be hard, but keep trying to tell Taichi. I know he’s worried, and I know he would do whatever he could to help you. And don’t worry, I won’t tell him or anyone else, unless you ask me to.
If you ever need to talk to me about it, any of it, I’ll always be willing to listen. You can email, or we can chat on the web, or you can even ask me to call you if you like. My parents won’t mind paying the long distance charges.
Also, I did some searching on the web after I hung up... Japan doesn’t have a whole lot of resources, but I found a couple of links I will attach to this email. One is the Tokyo Rape Crisis Center, they are geared towards helping women, but you might find some of the info useful. The other is a support group I found, they are for younger male survivors, and they have meetings. America has more resources, though of course you can’t use most of them since you’re not here, but I’ll attach the ones you could find helpful. You don’t have to use them all, or any of them, but if you think you want to talk to someone about it, they’re there.
Please take care of yourself. You’re a great friend to me, and I know from our time in the Digital World that you’re a strong person, Yamato. You can make it through this. I believe in you!
Mimi
* * *
He’s barely finished reading the email when his dad comes back.
“Get dressed,” his dad says without preamble.
He closes the email and turns around in his chair to give his dad a blank look of confusion.
“I’ve warned you several times, Yamato. Yet you still barely eat. You’ve lost a ton of weight. You’ve started dressing in layers despite the warm weather. I know you’re also still throwing up some of the food you do eat. You won’t tell anyone what’s wrong. I’m sorry, but I can’t let this go on anymore. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
He stays quiet, tears pricking at his eyes as he listens. Despite the words, his dad sounds scared. He never wanted to make his dad feel that way.
“I don’t want to,” he says softly.
His dad’s shoulders slump slightly, and he lets out a sigh. “Yamato, I don’t know what else to do. You need help. Fight me on this if you must, but one way or another, you’re going.”
He sits still for a moment. He wonders if the hospital will see all his marks and scars. He doesn’t want anyone to know about them.
He doesn’t want to fight his dad, either.
Slowly, he nods. “Okay.”
* * *
The waiting room is cold. He’s wearing two shirts and a jacket, and still has to repress the urge to shiver.
It’s a miserable hour before his number is up. He follows the nurse down the halls and slips into the room she indicates, looking at the thin hospital gown she hands him with trepidation.
He wonders if he should tell his dad or just let him see. He doesn’t put the gown on.
When the nurse comes back a few minutes later, she tsks at him. “Please put that on,” she tells him. “I know they’re not much, but if you’re cold we can bring you some more blankets.”
He watches her go again, saying nothing. His dad speaks up from where he’d settled in a chair in the corner of the small room. “I can leave the room if you don’t want to change in front of me,” he offers, and Yamato nods.
He can change and get under the covers before his dad ever sees his arms.
He knows it’s really only delaying the inevitable, but it helps.
* * *
His dad finds out when the doctor comes to look him over.
He had managed to keep his dad out of the room while the nurse was doing the usual things of getting his weight and temperature, but his dad insists on staying while the doctor is there.
“So what brings you here today?”
He’s looking at Yamato, but it’s his dad who answers.
“He barely eats anymore,” his dad says. “And what little he does eat, he throws up half of it. He’s lost a lot of weight. I’m worried about him.”
“Hmm. Is the throwing up voluntary?”
Yamato shakes his head. He really doesn’t do it on purpose.
“Any pain, stomach upset, any other symptoms?”
He shakes his head again.
“Alright, let’s have a look.”
He doesn’t really know what the doctor means until he pulls back the covers, and then his arms are exposed to everyone.
His dad sucks in a sharp breath and then closes his eyes, as if the sight is too much.
Hot shame washes over him, and he blinks back the tears that threaten. He wants to hide himself away in a room with his knife.
The doctor is silent for a moment, then says softly, “I’ll add a request for a psych eval.”
* * *
The place where the nurse put the IV in his arm feels cold. He doesn’t like it.
The doctor had said nothing else about the destruction on his arm. He’d just continued to check him over and ask a few more questions, eventually deciding that whatever the cause, he was malnourished enough to require nutrients from an IV. He’d suggested a feeding tube at first, but Yamato had nearly panicked at the thought of something being shoved down his throat.
His dad hasn’t said much since the doctor and nurse left. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
He wonders if his dad hates him.
* * *
The counselor they send to talk to him a while later makes his dad leave the room.
He’s asked a bunch of questions, some of which he can’t bring himself to answer. Not all of them have to do with his self-harm.
When he’s asked if he’s ever felt like taking his own life, he shakes his head no. He doesn’t think he’s ever once thought about that.
In the end, he’s given a diagnosis of depression and a recommendation for further evaluation and treatment by a licensed psychologist. They also give him a fact sheet on malnutrition, a recommendation on which nutritional supplements he is to start taking, a prescription for anti-nausea pills, and an appointment card for his usual doctor to monitor his progress. They also tell him that if he isn’t able to start eating and gaining some weight back, he will have to be admitted to the hospital and fed through the IV until he starts reaching a healthier weight.
He doesn’t bother to tell them that he’ll probably just wind up throwing up the pills too. It’s so hard to let anything go down his throat these days.
* * *
It’s dark out by the time he gets back home.
He doesn’t bother with answering Mimi’s email. He’s too worn out. Instead he just crawls into bed, still fully clothed, and is soon fast asleep.
* * *
His dad drags him into the living room early the next morning to talk.
“We need to discuss a few things,” his dad says quietly.
He nods, and stares at the lamp. It’s still missing the lamp shade, and is still too bright. It makes him uncomfortable. The lights at Ny’s had been bare bulbs too, though they’d been arranged stylishly.
He hears his dad sigh next to him. “I know you don’t like the lights anymore, Yamato, but we can’t talk in the dark. Please try to look at me and not the lamp.”
He tears his gaze away reluctantly, briefly meeting his dad’s eyes before looking down at his lap instead. Looking at his dad makes him feel ashamed, knowing his dad knows at least one of his secrets now.
“The, uh... cutting yourself...”
His dad sounds so awkward. He wants to flee back into his bedroom, wants to huddle under his covers in the dark where he feels safe and doesn’t have to deal with the world.
“I went on the web and looked some things up when you first started wearing long sleeves. I had suspected you were... hurting yourself... but I didn’t realise it was so extensive. I read enough to know that trying to make you stop will just make it worse, but I want you to promise me that if you hurt yourself seriously enough to require medical attention beyond simple first aid, that you will go to the hospital, whether you find your own way or ask me or someone else to take you. Promise?”
He nods again, still not looking up.
“No. I want you to look up at me and say it, Yamato.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he does so, his eyes flitting to his dad’s face long enough to say softly “I promise,” before looking down once again.
“Thank you. And... I don’t hate you because of it. I’m worried for you, and I wish you would tell someone whatever is wrong, but I’ll never hate you for it.”
Yamato swallows. His chest feels tight. He doesn’t respond.
“As for the food issue...” His dad sighs. “The doctor gave me some suggestions. Even though you are to take the supplements daily, you still need to actually eat. So we’re going to start having set meal times, and you are required to try and eat something at every meal. You’ll also take your pills half an hour before eating to help you keep the food down. He gave me a list of foods that are easy on the stomach, so we’ll start you off with those for now. Is that agreeable?”
It’s not. Just thinking about having to eat three times a day is making him want to be sick. He nods again anyway.
* * *
Ten minutes later he’s in the bathroom throwing up the pill. He tries not to, he really does. But he chokes on the water, and five seconds after that he’s flashing back to that Thursday, choking on other things...
His dad looks old and defeated when he walks back into the kitchen. It makes him feel horrible. He doesn’t mean to worry his dad. He wishes he could still eat, and sleep, and not hurt himself, and just be him again.
And he really doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.
Before his dad can say anything to him, he goes back over the counter where he’d left the bottle of pills and takes another one out. He grabs the glass he’d used earlier, and fills it with some more water from the tap. He looks at the little white pill in his hand, then resolutely takes a breath before swallowing it down.
He refuses to let himself think about that Thursday.
* * *
An hour later, he’s successfully eaten breakfast and kept it down.
His dad looks as if he’ll nearly cry from relief.
It makes him feel even worse. Something that should be so trivial should never make his dad so happy.
He hides away in his bedroom and loses himself for awhile. There are several patches of dark red drying on his sheets by the time he’s aware again.
He doesn’t tell his dad.
part three
* * *
It’s Saturday. Saturday means he can hide away in his room in the dark all day and not have to see his friends and family worry over him. Saturday means his dad works late, and he doesn’t have to force himself to eat or pretend that he’s fine.
Saturday is safe.
He boots up his computer and logs onto the internet, hesitating before typing three words into the search box. I cut myself.
Unsurprisingly, the results are full of people panicking because they accidentally cut themselves and were too stupid to know how to take care of it. He frowns, and after a moment’s thought, modifies his query to I cut myself on purpose.
He doesn’t even really know what exactly he’s looking for. He just knows he’s tired of feeling alone in this, and knows he isn’t ready to go to his friends or his dad. Online strangers seem like the next best idea. He wants to know that he’s not the only one crazy enough to hurt himself on purpose.
This time, he gets results. Among the several sites that pop up, one word in particular sticks out: self-harm.
He isn’t alone in this.
He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and clicks on a link that’s titled Why Do I Self-Harm?
He spends an hour reading, learning how just not alone he is in his behaviour. He even finds a web board filled with people that cut themselves, just like he does. So many of them hurting, so many of them looking for a way to make the pain go away. All of them just looking for support and affirmation.
He considers making a post of his own, but in the end he chickens out. He isn’t quite sure yet what he’d say. ‘Hi, I’m Yamato and I cut myself because I feel empty inside after being ...’
The unfinished thought makes him flinch, even when it’s inside his own head.
He jabs at the monitor, turning it off. He’s suddenly angry. He gets back into bed, pulling the covers over him.
When his phone goes off with Taichi’s tone, he ignores it.
* * *
Saturday night he wakes from yet another countless nightmare, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s got the blade out and hovering over a cleaner patch of pale thigh when the web board he’d been on that afternoon flashes through his mind.
One topic had been titled “Things to Do When You’re Trying to Stop.”
As odd as it sounds, the thought of stopping hadn’t crossed his mind until he’d read that.
It’s weird, but part of him likes it. He hates himself every time he slices up his skin, and he knows his dad or friends wouldn’t approve, but it helps, at least a little. The feelings don’t go away for long, but that instantaneous rush of relief he gets with the first cut is always amazing.
It’s almost addicting.
Ten minutes later he’s breathing heavy from anger and staring blankly at the large open gash in his thigh. There’s a small puddle of blood forming on his sheets. He doesn’t know how he’ll hide it from his dad.
* * *
Sunday afternoon he navigates his way back to the web board. He spends awhile reading other peoples’ stories, all the while thinking about his own.
Eventually he clicks on the create a new topic button. He stares at the white text box for awhile, not knowing what to say. He’s spent more than a month not telling people that even thinking about telling strangers on the web makes him anxious.
He doesn’t want to keep it a secret any longer.
Eventually he starts typing.
* * *
Hi everyone. I am new here. I am 16 years old and from Japan, so my English may not be so great. I found this place yesterday and spent awhile reading... I feel that I can relate to many of you, and the things everyone writes.
I started hurting myself about a month and half ago. It started out as an accident. But it made my numbness go away. And the bad feelings...
I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only person mental enough to hurt myself on purpose, and like it. But when I searched the web I found this board and realised I was not alone. Everyone here does it too.
A bad thing happened two months ago. I do not want to talk about it here. I am not ready. I can not tell anyone in my life yet either, though I want to. I am just scared. I don’t know why. My dad and my friends are worried a lot about me. I wish I could tell them, but I do not know how...
I have many lines all over my arms and legs, and even my stomach a bit. I never thought about stopping until I came here yesterday. I do not think I want to stop yet.
That is it for now. I hope no one minds my posting.
* * *
He shuts the computer down once he posts and doesn’t look at it for three days.
* * *
“You never returned my call,” Taichi says, jabbing him in the side with a finger.
He looks at the hurt frown on Taichi’s face and the shadow of a bruise on his cheek and lies. “What call?”
“I called you Saturday, on your cell. I left a voicemail when you didn’t pick up.”
“Oh,” he says, “I didn’t look at my cell all weekend. Sorry.”
Taichi looks doubtful at this, but doesn’t say anything.
“Was it important?” he tries, not wanting his best friend to be mad at him.
Taichi shakes his head and turns away. “Not really.”
He wants to reply, to say something to make it better, but their teacher comes in, so he shuts his mouth and doesn’t say a word.
He spends the lecture wondering why Taichi’s cheek is bruised.
* * *
After school he goes home and listens to the voicemail.
Hey, it’s Taichi, guess you’re not there... Call me back when you get this? It’s not important, I just really wanted to come over and hang out for awhile, being home is... driving me crazy. It doesn’t matter. Call me back soon!
There’s a tremor in Taichi’s voice he recognises. It’s the way his voice always sounds when he’s trying hard not to cry but not always doing so well.
Fuck.
He rings Taichi back immediately, wondering how he let himself get so caught up in his own problems that he stopped being a friend.
He supposes he deserves it when Taichi doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t leave a voicemail.
* * *
When he goes to school the next day, he discovers the band is mad at him. Ny especially. He’s ditched the last four practises they’ve held.
“Are you quitting?” Ny demands.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says softly.
“Then why have you been avoiding practise?”
He feels desperate. He doesn’t know what to tell them; he has no answer for them. He wants to go to practise.
But every time he thinks about it, the afterparty flashes in his mind.
It had been such a great live. They’d all performed wonderfully, he’d sang his heart out. He’d been so pumped afterward, filled with the rush of a job well done. Adrenaline was coursing through him at high speed and then he’d poured alcohol on top of it.
He never even realised he’d been followed until the door locked behind them.
He feels a lump in his throat. He wonders if Ny even realised there was anything wrong with him that night.
“Yamato?”
The hands on his wrist, the weight on top of his chest. He can smell the alcohol on his own breath when the stranger shoves fingers in his mouth and forces it open. He hears harsh breathing and it takes him a moment to realise it’s his own.
“Yamato?”
He blinks. The moment from that night is gone.
Ratsuii’s staring at him, looking concerned. Something salty hits his lips, and he realises he’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and then he flees.
* * *
The sink is smeared with red.
He touches a finger to it, noting it’s dry. He looks down then and sees rust-coloured droplets spattered all over the floor. There aren’t any new marks on his thighs, nor any large wounds, but both his arms are sporting numerous angry slashes, and the blood on them is just as smeared as the sink.
His dad is knocking on the door, calling his name in a worried tone.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. He blinks and tries to speak, his voice catching. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Out in a few minutes,” he manages, and looks around again. It’s enough to temporarily placate his dad.
Quickly he turns the water on, running it hot. He tackles the sink first, and then the floor, working fast and erasing any traces of his blood. Once that’s done, he turns his attention to his arms. The hot water makes the new cuts sting.
He wonders how he got so messed up that he likes the pain.
When he finally flips off the light and exits the bathroom, making sure his sleeves are pulled all the way down, his dad is standing in the hallway waiting for him, a worried look on his face.
“I was calling your name for almost ten minutes,” he says, eyes flicking down to the sleeves that Yamato has tightly wrapped his fingers around.
“I fell asleep,” he says, and ducks around his dad into the dark of his bedroom.
“Yamato-” his dad begins, no doubt ready to spew more stern words of lecture interlaced with concern, but he shuts the door, enclosing himself in the darkness.
The dark is safe.
* * *
He finds out the remnants of the bruise on Taichi’s cheek came from an errant soccer ball during Taichi’s last practise. Taichi still won’t tell him what that voicemail had been about, however.
He knows he really does deserve it. He’s been a shitty friend lately.
But at least Taichi’s still talking to him, unlike Ny.
* * *
He doesn’t check on his post for a week. When he does, he’s floored to see there are about fifteen replies. He honestly hadn’t expected any.
He reads through them slowly, blinking back tears at how nice everyone’s responses are. They all express sympathy for him, and understanding of where he’s at in his head right now. Some offer up their own stories. No one says anything negative, or tells him he should stop. No one even asks what his “bad thing” is, though a few offer to be a listening ear if he ever wants to talk about it.
He feels overwhelmed.
He stares at the responses for a moment longer, then powers down the computer and crawls in bed. He can’t bring himself to respond to anyone right now.
* * *
Takeru shows up unannounced at the apartment the afternoon after he reads his responses. Yamato’s alone, as his dad’s still at work. He thinks about ignoring the door until Takeru goes away, but he knows how stubborn his brother can be.
“Yamato! Let me in!” he calls, pounding on the door, and Yamato groans. He gets up from where he’d been sitting mindlessly on the couch and lets his little brother in.
As soon as his brother’s in, he goes back to the couch and collapses on it once more. Takeru stands in front of it, arms folded across his chest and a serious look on his face. “Everyone’s worried about you,” he states bluntly.
He glances briefly at his brother, and then continues to stare at the ceiling. He knows everyone is worried about him.
“Yamato!” Takeru insists, but he doesn’t look over at him this time.
“I’m fine,” he eventually says.
“You’re not,” Takeru snaps. “Everyone can see that. And you told Dad you weren’t.”
He simply shrugs.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” his brother says.
He can’t deal with this right now. He knows his brother is worried and just wants to help, but right now all he feels is annoyance. He just wants Takeru to go away and leave him alone. He can’t ever imagine himself telling Takeru about what happened to him.
He stares blankly at his brother for a moment, and then gets off the couch and goes into his room, shutting the door and locking it.
There’s a minute or so of silence, then Takeru’s stunned voice yells “Yamato!” at him from the other room. He ignores it and lays down on his bed to stare at that ceiling instead. Eventually he falls asleep.
When he wakes back up again, Takeru is gone.
* * *
Two days later, he and Taichi get into a fight. If one could even really call it that.
He’d dreamed in the night again, of the fingers and the weight and the lights, of his head knocking against the headboard, of choking and breathing through his nose. Of the white staining his lips, and of the smell that, oddly enough, faintly resembled raw pancake batter.
He hadn’t been able to eat lunch.
“Not hungry again?” Taichi had asked him, sighing.
He’d silently shaken his head. He’d expected Taichi to grudgingly accept his answer, as he’d been doing for the past couple of months.
Apparently, however, Taichi had reached his breaking point.
“Of course you’re not,” he snapped. “You never are anymore. Just like you never talk anymore either! But of course you’re fine! It’s not like you’ve lost weight or anything, you’re fine after all. It’s not like you avoid your band, and your brother, and your friends! You’re totally fine! Who needs to eat anyway, right? Why don’t you just starve yourself to death then? You’ll be fine!”
He had found he could only stare at his best friend with wide eyes and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been uncomfortably reminded of the Taichi in his nightmares.
He had wanted to throw up. He’d wanted to say something, to tell Taichi he wasn’t fine, that something was wrong with him and he didn’t know how to fix it. He wanted Taichi to help him.
“I...”
Like always, the words had stuck in his throat.
Taichi hadn’t bothered to stick around. He’d simply shaken his head in disgust before getting up and storming off. Yamato had sat silently and let him go.
* * *
Thank you everyone for the many kind words. I don’t feel alone as much to know everyone else has gone through similar things.
Today was a bad day. My best friend got mad at me when I was at school today. He wants to know the “bad thing” that happened. He doesn’t know for sure that there is a “bad thing” but he knows something is wrong. I had many bad dreams last night, and I was not able to eat today. He became angry and said things he did not mean, and will not talk to me now.
I really want to tell him but when I try, nothing happens. I say “I” but the other words get stuck in my mouth.
I hurt myself a lot today. I wish I could tell one person who knows me.
* * *
He posts the reply to his thread but doesn’t leave the board, instead surfing through others’ posts of sorrow and offering a few condolences of his own. His thighs and stomach ache from the abuse he’d heaped on them earlier.
He barely notices it over the ache in his heart.
An hour later, just as he’s about to turn off the computer and go back to bed, his thread gets a new reply.
* * *
Hi lovemusic16. First off, I’ve just read both of your posts and I’m sorry to hear that you are struggling so much with self-harm. But I understand that you’re not ready to stop, and won’t suggest it. Of course it is not the healthiest coping method, but what many people who lack experience with it don’t seem to understand is that, even though it’s not the best thing, it’s what’s keeping you alive and sane right now. It’s what’s enabling you to get through whatever your “bad thing” is.
If you don’t mind, I would like to share my own story. I’m a male, 23 now, and when I was 15, I was raped. He was 19, and the brother of one of my friends from school. I had never met him before, as he had been away at college overseas since I’d known my friend, but he’d managed to come home for the holidays that year. I had spent the evening at my friend’s house hanging out, and when I realised how late it had gotten and how mad my parents would be, he offered to give me a ride home.
I didn’t think anything of accepting. I figured my friend’s brother would be trustworthy. But he wasn’t.
He didn’t take me home at first. He drove me to an empty parking lot of an abandoned building and locked me in with him, setting the child safety locks so I couldn’t get out. He placated me by offering for us to crawl in the backseat and smoke a quick joint. I’d never smoked weed before, so even though I was anxious to get home, I figured I’d just smoke real quick and then we could go. After a bit, the weed had successfully gotten me a bit high, and I realised his hands were undoing my belt. I remember looking down in confusion, but before I could say anything about it, he was kissing me.
It’s been eight years now, and I still can’t forget that night, as much as I’ve wished to over the years. I’m not going to go into the details, but he raped me that night in the back of his car, ignoring my crying and begging pleas of no. It couldn’t have been more than seven or eight minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Afterwards, he used an old towel lying on the floorboards to wipe away my blood, and told me to get dressed. Then he took me home.
I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to. I felt ashamed of myself, and disgusted. I couldn’t properly process what had happened to me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of the emotions. I started cutting myself, wherever I could manage. Mostly my arms, sometimes my legs. I began wearing long sleeves to hide the marks. I became very depressed, and withdrew from my family and friends. I only talked when necessary, and rarely ate or slept. Everyone knew something was wrong, but no one knew what. They would try and try to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. I got worse and worse.
A year after it happened, I tried to kill myself. Cutting only helped so much, and I was drowning under the weight of all the emotions I was constantly trying to deal with. I was rushed to the hospital, and my family found out about my self-harm. Even then, I still couldn’t tell them the truth, so they stuck me in a mental hospital. It was a miserable experience. My family paid for me to stay there three months. After the first month, I learned enough of what they wanted to temporarily stop cutting and pretend I was better, so that I could get released. But I wasn’t better. I began cutting within a week of my release. I wasn’t ready to stop. My parents found out, and took away all my “tools” and placed so many restrictions on me and were constantly watching me to make sure I couldn’t harm myself. I hated it, and I couldn’t cope with all my emotions. So the first chance I had, I attempted to kill myself for the second time.
To make a long story a bit shorter, I went through years of cycling through self-harm, suicide attempts, and mental hospitals before I began to get better. Once I was 18, my parents couldn’t stick me in the hospitals anymore, or control my self-harm. I moved out and rented an apartment with the one friend I’d had left. I was 19 before I finally trusted him enough to tell him my secret. It was one of the most freeing feelings I’d ever experienced. Yet I was 20 before I sought therapy. Even now at 23, I’m only just beginning to really recover from what happened to me, and stop self-harming and put my life together.
I guess, what I’m trying to tell you with all this, is that I wish I had told someone sooner. Telling someone did wonders for finally putting me on the path towards getting help, and not hating myself, and learning to deal with the things I was feeling. It helped me want to stop scarring up my skin, and eventually helped me to actually stop. I’ve finally started feeling “normal” again, and even happy at times. I don’t have bad dreams as much anymore. I’m hungry again, and talking to people. My life has gotten so much better since I’ve opened up.
I don’t know what your “bad thing” is that happened. You don’t have to tell me, or anyone on here, or even anyone in your life if you really don’t want to. But I hope that you’ll at least consider telling someone. Maybe an online friend, or someone you’re not as close to, or maybe even a therapist if you think you want to do that. It’s easier when you aren’t as worried about being judged.
Regardless of what you do, I’m sorry for the things you’re going through. I’m sorry your friend got mad at you and isn’t talking to you. A lot of my friends eventually did the same to me, and it only made me feel more lonely and depressed. I hope things turn out better for you than they did for me. I’ll be checking your thread every once in a while to see how you’re doing. Hang in there!
* * *
He cries for a long time after reading the reply.
Out of all the people in the previous replies that had shared their stories with him, this person is the first one to share a story of a situation similar to his. And the likeness to his own reactions isn’t lost on him.
He just wishes he knew how to tell someone.
* * *
Taichi doesn’t apologise to him for three days. He endures them silently, stoically, even though his heart is aching. He is terrified Taichi won’t ever speak to him again, that he’s fed up with him and giving up on him.
His arms gain a lot of new marks.
At last, at the end of the third day, Taichi approaches him as he’s packing up to go home.
“Yamato. I’m sorry,” Taichi says.
His hand stills in its motions, textbook still halfway out of his bag. He doesn’t look up.
“I’m worried about you,” Taichi continues bluntly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you the other day, but I know something’s wrong. I wish you would talk to me, tell me what’s bothering you. I want to help you.”
“I...”
“You what?”
Yamato shakes his head. He just can’t.
After a moment of silence, Taichi sighs. “Come on then,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
The next time he checks his computer, there’s an email from Mimi.
He and Mimi had started emailing a month or so after they’d saved the Digital World a second time. Over the past couple of years, he’s become pretty good friends with her. He’s still best friends with Taichi, of course, but sometimes he finds it easier to tell her things than Taichi.
He hasn’t emailed her since that Thursday night.
Swallowing, he opens it up and begins to read.
* * *
Hey Yamato! How are you doing? You never answered my last email, and it’s been a couple of months now... Is everything okay? Taichi didn’t say much, but he mentioned he was worried about you. Sora and Koushiro said something too. You know you can always talk to me, right? I won’t tell any of the other Chosen. No judgement. Write me back please!
Mimi ♥
* * *
He stares at the email for a long time. His mind feels blank.
He doesn’t know what to do.
* * *
He begins to use the web forum more frequently over the next few days. It’s so much easier to pour out his thoughts and feelings to complete strangers that have been in a similar place, even if he sometimes get frustrated by his English.
Everyone that responds to him always has something sympathetic or encouraging to say. Several people try to convince him to tell someone in his “real life” what’s bothering him, or about whatever happened to him.
He starts private messaging the guy whose situation was similar to his own, the one that had left him such a long response. He never comes out and admits what happened to him, but the questions he asks probably make the guy-whose name is Alex-suspect the truth.
Alex manages to give him a suggestion that no one else does. He says to write a letter to whoever he wants to tell the truth to. This way, he’s still telling someone, but the pressure is off to have to actually say the words to their face and see their immediate reaction.
The more Yamato thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. He thinks about the last response Mimi sent him. Mimi is far away in America. And an email is a lot like a letter.
* * *
When he comes back to himself in the middle of the night some days later, tightly clutching his knife, skin smeared with red and the echoing remnants of his nightmare ringing in his ears, he knows what to do.
He doesn’t bother to clean up. He just sets his knife aside and quietly creeps over to the computer, not wanting to wake his dad.
The sound of the computer booting up and then dialing into the internet seems so loud in the silence of the night. He winces, and listens anxiously for any sign of his dad waking.
He hears nothing.
Eventually he’s settled in front of his screen, trying to ignore how bright it seems in the dark of his room, Mimi’s email open in front of him. He hits the ‘reply’ button and begins to type.
* * *
Hi Mimi... Sorry I didn’t respond to your last email sooner. The truth is... everything is not okay. I know everyone is worried about me. I want to tell Taichi, have tried to tell him, but every time, the words seem to get stuck in my throat.
I’m not fine.
That is what is wrong with me. I’m not fine. I barely eat. I’ve lost a ton of weight. My dad has threatened to stick me in the hospital several times. I also don’t sleep well anymore. I have nightmares a lot, and wake up choking or crying. I can’t stand bright light anymore. I spend a lot of time in the dark.
There are other things, too, other secrets I still want to keep. I know I’m not alone, though. I found a web board, with other people like me. It’s in English, but I still post there some. It helps a little.
I can’t stand to go to band practise anymore. It reminds me too much of that Thursday night. The night everything changed, and I felt like I stopped really living. My bandmates are all worried about me too, and mad that I’ve skipped practise and won’t tell them what’s going on.
If I tell you, please don’t think badly of me... I wish I hadn’t let it happen. I wish I could have done something.
Do you remember the last email I sent you, telling you about the live I had?
Well, the live was great. It went so well, I was so excited and happy. But the band had a party afterwards at Nyusumi’s house. A bunch of fans were there. I got drunk. I didn’t even really mean to. I was just having a good time, riding the adrenaline of a successful live, drinking along with everyone else. I didn’t realise how drunk I really was until I stood up.
The party was mostly outside and in Ny’s guest house. I went in, looking for the bathroom. It’s off the one bedroom. It wasn’t until the door was shut and locked behind me that I realised someone had followed me into the bedroom. He pinned me to the bed. I tried to fight, but I was so drunk... At one point he hit my head and then I couldn’t manage to fight anymore.
The lights on the ceiling were really bright.
I threw up a lot afterwards. There was blood. I wanted a shower. I wanted to wash him away. I wanted to get clean again.
I still haven’t been able to.
So... that’s it. I’m not fine. I don’t know what to do.
Yamato
* * *
He’s crying by the time he finishes, silent tears sliding down his cheeks to land on his hands. Even just that little bit dredges up every horrible memory of that night. He feels dirty, and worthless.
He lets the pointer hover over the ‘send’ button for quite a while. Now that he’s written it out, he’s uncertain if he wants to send it, to finally have someone else know.
A noise out in the hallway has him panicking. His dad is getting up to use the bathroom.
Quickly, before he can think about it anymore, he clicks the send button, and then jabs at the monitor to turn it off. He’s back in bed pretending to sleep by the time his dad pokes his head through the partially open door to quietly check on him.
When his dad leaves again a moment later, he lets out a shaky breath. Now Mimi will know.
He can only hope she won’t be disgusted by him.
* * *
Twenty minutes after sending the email, his cell rings.
He bolts upright in bed, lunging at the bedside table where he keeps it, and turns it on silent. Only then does he look at the display.
It’s Mimi.
He takes a confused moment to wonder why she’s calling him at two in the morning, and then remembers it’s around three in the afternoon in America.
He continues to stare at the display. His heart beats a little faster in anxiety. He doesn’t want to answer it.
It rings several times before she gives up and the screen darkens. He doesn’t set it down. Instead he waits, tense, for her to try again.
A few minutes later the screen lights up again, this time letting him know he’s got an email.
He sighs, and creeps back over to the monitor, turning it back on.
* * *
Yamato, I know you’re there. I know it’s the middle of the night for you, but you only sent your email maybe half an hour ago, if that. I’m not looking to make you talk about it, and I’m not judging you at all, but I’d like to talk to you for just a minute or two. Please? I want you to hear me say this and hear the sincerity in my voice. Please pick up.
Mimi
* * *
He doesn’t know why, but the email makes him start crying again.
True to her word, his cell begins to silently ring again a couple of minutes after he reads the email.
He lets it ring for a bit, not sure if he wants to answer. He looks at the email again.
Wiping away a few tears, he flips open the phone. He doesn’t say ‘hello.’
“Yamato?”
More tears slide down his cheeks. He’s suddenly terrified. He can’t believe he’s actually told someone.
“Yamato, I can hear you breathing.” She lets out a little half-laugh, though it doesn’t sound all that amused. “Sorry, I just realised that sounded a little creepy.”
Still he says nothing. There’s a lump in his throat. It’s not unlike the one that appears when he tries to tell Taichi.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk. Just listen. Yamato... thank you for trusting me. I’m glad you consider me a good enough friend to tell me such a secret. I’m so sorry something like that happened to you. I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it must have been. But I do know that you didn’t deserve it.”
Her voice sounds both pained and sympathetic. He bites his lip to stifle the sudden threatening sobs and grips the phone tightly.
“Even if you were drunk that night, no one had the right to violate you like that. No one ever has the right to hurt you in such a way. It wasn’t your fault, Yamato. I hope you don’t blame yourself, and I want you to know that I don’t think any less of you for what happened.”
His fingers relax ever so slightly.
She continues on, oblivious to the emotional turmoil her words are putting him through, though he’s thankful for them just the same. “If you ever want to talk, you can always call me, or have me call you, okay? Call anytime, I’m always available to listen.”
She falls silent then. He sits there a moment, breathing deeply and trying to calm down. The knot in his throat loosens. He parts his lips.
“Thanks,” he says softly, and hangs up.
* * *
When he wakes back up Saturday morning, there’s another email from Mimi.
He merely looks at it, heart pounding, too afraid to open it. What if she changed her mind from last night and now decides she hates him after all?
He shuts the computer down and stares at the dark screen blankly until his dad knocks on his door.
“Yamato? Are you okay?” His dad sounds confused.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
“Come eat breakfast? I got some take away.”
He shakes his head. He’s not hungry. His stomach is a giant knot of nerves.
Behind him, he hears his dad sigh, and then the door shuts.
He’s alone in the room. With a shaking hand, he reaches out and boots up the computer again.
* * *
Yamato... I know I talked to you last night, but I wanted to say it again, so you know for sure. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry something like that happened to you. That’s awful. You didn’t deserve it. I really do hope that you don’t blame yourself, though your words suggest otherwise... But even if you were drunk, it was not your fault. No one has the right to hurt you in such a way.
I know it has to be hard, but keep trying to tell Taichi. I know he’s worried, and I know he would do whatever he could to help you. And don’t worry, I won’t tell him or anyone else, unless you ask me to.
If you ever need to talk to me about it, any of it, I’ll always be willing to listen. You can email, or we can chat on the web, or you can even ask me to call you if you like. My parents won’t mind paying the long distance charges.
Also, I did some searching on the web after I hung up... Japan doesn’t have a whole lot of resources, but I found a couple of links I will attach to this email. One is the Tokyo Rape Crisis Center, they are geared towards helping women, but you might find some of the info useful. The other is a support group I found, they are for younger male survivors, and they have meetings. America has more resources, though of course you can’t use most of them since you’re not here, but I’ll attach the ones you could find helpful. You don’t have to use them all, or any of them, but if you think you want to talk to someone about it, they’re there.
Please take care of yourself. You’re a great friend to me, and I know from our time in the Digital World that you’re a strong person, Yamato. You can make it through this. I believe in you!
Mimi
* * *
He’s barely finished reading the email when his dad comes back.
“Get dressed,” his dad says without preamble.
He closes the email and turns around in his chair to give his dad a blank look of confusion.
“I’ve warned you several times, Yamato. Yet you still barely eat. You’ve lost a ton of weight. You’ve started dressing in layers despite the warm weather. I know you’re also still throwing up some of the food you do eat. You won’t tell anyone what’s wrong. I’m sorry, but I can’t let this go on anymore. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
He stays quiet, tears pricking at his eyes as he listens. Despite the words, his dad sounds scared. He never wanted to make his dad feel that way.
“I don’t want to,” he says softly.
His dad’s shoulders slump slightly, and he lets out a sigh. “Yamato, I don’t know what else to do. You need help. Fight me on this if you must, but one way or another, you’re going.”
He sits still for a moment. He wonders if the hospital will see all his marks and scars. He doesn’t want anyone to know about them.
He doesn’t want to fight his dad, either.
Slowly, he nods. “Okay.”
* * *
The waiting room is cold. He’s wearing two shirts and a jacket, and still has to repress the urge to shiver.
It’s a miserable hour before his number is up. He follows the nurse down the halls and slips into the room she indicates, looking at the thin hospital gown she hands him with trepidation.
He wonders if he should tell his dad or just let him see. He doesn’t put the gown on.
When the nurse comes back a few minutes later, she tsks at him. “Please put that on,” she tells him. “I know they’re not much, but if you’re cold we can bring you some more blankets.”
He watches her go again, saying nothing. His dad speaks up from where he’d settled in a chair in the corner of the small room. “I can leave the room if you don’t want to change in front of me,” he offers, and Yamato nods.
He can change and get under the covers before his dad ever sees his arms.
He knows it’s really only delaying the inevitable, but it helps.
* * *
His dad finds out when the doctor comes to look him over.
He had managed to keep his dad out of the room while the nurse was doing the usual things of getting his weight and temperature, but his dad insists on staying while the doctor is there.
“So what brings you here today?”
He’s looking at Yamato, but it’s his dad who answers.
“He barely eats anymore,” his dad says. “And what little he does eat, he throws up half of it. He’s lost a lot of weight. I’m worried about him.”
“Hmm. Is the throwing up voluntary?”
Yamato shakes his head. He really doesn’t do it on purpose.
“Any pain, stomach upset, any other symptoms?”
He shakes his head again.
“Alright, let’s have a look.”
He doesn’t really know what the doctor means until he pulls back the covers, and then his arms are exposed to everyone.
His dad sucks in a sharp breath and then closes his eyes, as if the sight is too much.
Hot shame washes over him, and he blinks back the tears that threaten. He wants to hide himself away in a room with his knife.
The doctor is silent for a moment, then says softly, “I’ll add a request for a psych eval.”
* * *
The place where the nurse put the IV in his arm feels cold. He doesn’t like it.
The doctor had said nothing else about the destruction on his arm. He’d just continued to check him over and ask a few more questions, eventually deciding that whatever the cause, he was malnourished enough to require nutrients from an IV. He’d suggested a feeding tube at first, but Yamato had nearly panicked at the thought of something being shoved down his throat.
His dad hasn’t said much since the doctor and nurse left. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
He wonders if his dad hates him.
* * *
The counselor they send to talk to him a while later makes his dad leave the room.
He’s asked a bunch of questions, some of which he can’t bring himself to answer. Not all of them have to do with his self-harm.
When he’s asked if he’s ever felt like taking his own life, he shakes his head no. He doesn’t think he’s ever once thought about that.
In the end, he’s given a diagnosis of depression and a recommendation for further evaluation and treatment by a licensed psychologist. They also give him a fact sheet on malnutrition, a recommendation on which nutritional supplements he is to start taking, a prescription for anti-nausea pills, and an appointment card for his usual doctor to monitor his progress. They also tell him that if he isn’t able to start eating and gaining some weight back, he will have to be admitted to the hospital and fed through the IV until he starts reaching a healthier weight.
He doesn’t bother to tell them that he’ll probably just wind up throwing up the pills too. It’s so hard to let anything go down his throat these days.
* * *
It’s dark out by the time he gets back home.
He doesn’t bother with answering Mimi’s email. He’s too worn out. Instead he just crawls into bed, still fully clothed, and is soon fast asleep.
* * *
His dad drags him into the living room early the next morning to talk.
“We need to discuss a few things,” his dad says quietly.
He nods, and stares at the lamp. It’s still missing the lamp shade, and is still too bright. It makes him uncomfortable. The lights at Ny’s had been bare bulbs too, though they’d been arranged stylishly.
He hears his dad sigh next to him. “I know you don’t like the lights anymore, Yamato, but we can’t talk in the dark. Please try to look at me and not the lamp.”
He tears his gaze away reluctantly, briefly meeting his dad’s eyes before looking down at his lap instead. Looking at his dad makes him feel ashamed, knowing his dad knows at least one of his secrets now.
“The, uh... cutting yourself...”
His dad sounds so awkward. He wants to flee back into his bedroom, wants to huddle under his covers in the dark where he feels safe and doesn’t have to deal with the world.
“I went on the web and looked some things up when you first started wearing long sleeves. I had suspected you were... hurting yourself... but I didn’t realise it was so extensive. I read enough to know that trying to make you stop will just make it worse, but I want you to promise me that if you hurt yourself seriously enough to require medical attention beyond simple first aid, that you will go to the hospital, whether you find your own way or ask me or someone else to take you. Promise?”
He nods again, still not looking up.
“No. I want you to look up at me and say it, Yamato.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he does so, his eyes flitting to his dad’s face long enough to say softly “I promise,” before looking down once again.
“Thank you. And... I don’t hate you because of it. I’m worried for you, and I wish you would tell someone whatever is wrong, but I’ll never hate you for it.”
Yamato swallows. His chest feels tight. He doesn’t respond.
“As for the food issue...” His dad sighs. “The doctor gave me some suggestions. Even though you are to take the supplements daily, you still need to actually eat. So we’re going to start having set meal times, and you are required to try and eat something at every meal. You’ll also take your pills half an hour before eating to help you keep the food down. He gave me a list of foods that are easy on the stomach, so we’ll start you off with those for now. Is that agreeable?”
It’s not. Just thinking about having to eat three times a day is making him want to be sick. He nods again anyway.
* * *
Ten minutes later he’s in the bathroom throwing up the pill. He tries not to, he really does. But he chokes on the water, and five seconds after that he’s flashing back to that Thursday, choking on other things...
His dad looks old and defeated when he walks back into the kitchen. It makes him feel horrible. He doesn’t mean to worry his dad. He wishes he could still eat, and sleep, and not hurt himself, and just be him again.
And he really doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.
Before his dad can say anything to him, he goes back over the counter where he’d left the bottle of pills and takes another one out. He grabs the glass he’d used earlier, and fills it with some more water from the tap. He looks at the little white pill in his hand, then resolutely takes a breath before swallowing it down.
He refuses to let himself think about that Thursday.
* * *
An hour later, he’s successfully eaten breakfast and kept it down.
His dad looks as if he’ll nearly cry from relief.
It makes him feel even worse. Something that should be so trivial should never make his dad so happy.
He hides away in his bedroom and loses himself for awhile. There are several patches of dark red drying on his sheets by the time he’s aware again.
He doesn’t tell his dad.
part three