For Julie
This is long.
In elementary school and high school, I had a friend named Julie. She lived down the street from me. We both had kinda fucked up families, and we just seemed to be drawn to each other. Julie was smart, and hilariously funny, cynical, crazy in a good way, a talented athlete, and she adored her dogs. She was always there when I was having a bad day. I once commented to her that sometimes I wished she wasn't on the same school bus as me, because sometimes when I was in a bad mood, I just wanted to stay in a bad mood, and she invariably cheered me up on the way home from school.
I have all these memories of her. We used to make up crazy stories about how she was really an alien from another planet, and her spaceship had crashlanded in my attic. How her family wasn't really her family, but just a cover, since she had to hide her alien nature. How her favorite food was yellow cars with ketchup, because that was what one ate on her planet: cars. We used to throw tangerines out the window of the school bus at passing cars. Her dog Rudy bit me while we were playing in the snow one day, hard enough to draw blood through my snowpants, and since I was the second person she'd bitten, Julie's parents had Rudy put to sleep. One night when I was sleeping over at her house, I was sleeping in a hammock attached to the wall about 5 feet off the floor. About 10 minutes after we turned the light off, the hammock fell to the floor, with me in it. After we established that I wasn't seriously injured, we laughed about it for half an hour, much to the puzzlement of her mother.
As we got older, Julie got more depressed, and more angry. Never at me. She didn't like boys. At all. People whispered that she was a lesbian. I figured she might be, or she might be celibate, but it wasn't any of my business unless she brought it up. She particularly detested her older brother, Neil. His bedroom was right beside hers, in the basement of their split-level house. I remember that several times when we were hanging out in her room, he would come and stand in the doorway, and inch his foot over the edge of the doorframe. She would fly into a weird rage, yell at him that he was never, ever allowed to come into her room, that there was a line at the door, and he was not allowed to cross it. Once, she threw something at him and slammed the door in his face. He always just laughed.
When we were 16, we finished high school, and I went on to CEGEP (junior college). I think Julie went to a different CEGEP, or perhaps she took a year off? My memories of those years of my life are kind of foggy at this point. Our paths kind of diverged, but we tried to keep in touch. I remember that one night, when we were hanging out, she took me to her father's strip club, where she was a bartender, and where I'm fairly certain that her younger sister was a stripper. Ew. I mean, this was Montreal, where strip clubs are pretty much de rigeur, but your daughter? Ew.
A couple of years later I moved to Boston. When I came home to visit, I always tried to see Julie. We hung out a few times. Her life was going downhill. I wanted to help, but I didn't know how, and I was distracted by my own new situation and new friends and new life. We drifted further apart. At some point somebody (my brother?) told me that Julie was having serious mental health problems. Her father had involuntarily committed her to a mental health institution. The next time I went home, I made sure to see her. I went to visit her in her tiny little basement apartment, where she lived with her dog, who ate the pompom off my hat.
She had gained a lot of weight. She hated her shit job. She was broke. She had stopped playing almost all of her sports, except for the occasional game of hockey. She was clearly severely depressed. The waves of pain seemed to roll off her. I told her that I, too, had gone through a severe depression. I told her that if she wanted to talk to me, I would be happy to listen. I told her I wouldn't judge her. She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed me the scars on her arm. I had another friend who cut herself, so this wasn't completely out of the realm of my experience, but the sheer scale of what she showed me shocked the hell out of me. Gashes, some old and pale, some red and raw, in lines, up and down her arm, new ones over old, on every exposed inch of skin. I hope I didn't let her see how afraid for her I suddenly got. I didn't know what to say. She told me that the scars where everywhere. All over her legs, her chest, her stomach. She told me how she couldn't help it, how it was the only way she could feel any relief. She told me how she had to wear long pants and long-sleeved shirts with high necks, all the time. She told me about her suicide attempt. She told me about the institution she'd been committed to, the counselling groups, the inpatient and outpatient programs, the doctors who never seemed to understand her, who just prescribed drugs that made her feel ill and didn't help. She told me that nobody could help her. I told her that I didn't think she was crazy. I told her that I cared about her. I didn't know what else to say. I gave her my phone number in Boston. I told her that if she ever wanted to talk, she should call me. I thought that at least she was getting help. At least there were people watching over her.
Shortly after I returned to Boston, I became very ill. I had to take a year and a half off of school. I went through another major depression. I am ashamed to say that I forgot about Julie. A couple of years later when I had managed to get myself back to some semblance of health, I went by her Mum's house while I was on a visit home. Nobody was there. I called and left a message. Nobody called back. I didn't think much of it. I didn't go home much to visit anymore, so somehow I never managed to go by the house again.
Over the years, I thought about Julie occasionally. I wondered how she was. I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people, to my chagrin. I kept thinking that the next time I went home, I'd call her and go and see her. But there never was a next time. About a year ago, I was talking with my brother, and he mentioned that Julie was dead. She had killed herself. I'm not even sure when. My brother was surprised that I didn't know. It turns out that my mother knew, and never told me, because she didn't think I could deal with it.
I wish I could have helped her. I wish I could have done something. More than anything, I wish I could have realized way back then what I'm pretty certain of now. I think that Julie was sexually abused by her older brother, and perhaps by her father. I think that she fought against what that did to her, and she fought hard, but in the end, it killed her. Because she has been silenced, and because I doubt that anybody ever spoke up for her, I thought that I would. I wish she was here to read this.
No Pity. No Shame. No Silence.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/misia/445834.html
In elementary school and high school, I had a friend named Julie. She lived down the street from me. We both had kinda fucked up families, and we just seemed to be drawn to each other. Julie was smart, and hilariously funny, cynical, crazy in a good way, a talented athlete, and she adored her dogs. She was always there when I was having a bad day. I once commented to her that sometimes I wished she wasn't on the same school bus as me, because sometimes when I was in a bad mood, I just wanted to stay in a bad mood, and she invariably cheered me up on the way home from school.
I have all these memories of her. We used to make up crazy stories about how she was really an alien from another planet, and her spaceship had crashlanded in my attic. How her family wasn't really her family, but just a cover, since she had to hide her alien nature. How her favorite food was yellow cars with ketchup, because that was what one ate on her planet: cars. We used to throw tangerines out the window of the school bus at passing cars. Her dog Rudy bit me while we were playing in the snow one day, hard enough to draw blood through my snowpants, and since I was the second person she'd bitten, Julie's parents had Rudy put to sleep. One night when I was sleeping over at her house, I was sleeping in a hammock attached to the wall about 5 feet off the floor. About 10 minutes after we turned the light off, the hammock fell to the floor, with me in it. After we established that I wasn't seriously injured, we laughed about it for half an hour, much to the puzzlement of her mother.
As we got older, Julie got more depressed, and more angry. Never at me. She didn't like boys. At all. People whispered that she was a lesbian. I figured she might be, or she might be celibate, but it wasn't any of my business unless she brought it up. She particularly detested her older brother, Neil. His bedroom was right beside hers, in the basement of their split-level house. I remember that several times when we were hanging out in her room, he would come and stand in the doorway, and inch his foot over the edge of the doorframe. She would fly into a weird rage, yell at him that he was never, ever allowed to come into her room, that there was a line at the door, and he was not allowed to cross it. Once, she threw something at him and slammed the door in his face. He always just laughed.
When we were 16, we finished high school, and I went on to CEGEP (junior college). I think Julie went to a different CEGEP, or perhaps she took a year off? My memories of those years of my life are kind of foggy at this point. Our paths kind of diverged, but we tried to keep in touch. I remember that one night, when we were hanging out, she took me to her father's strip club, where she was a bartender, and where I'm fairly certain that her younger sister was a stripper. Ew. I mean, this was Montreal, where strip clubs are pretty much de rigeur, but your daughter? Ew.
A couple of years later I moved to Boston. When I came home to visit, I always tried to see Julie. We hung out a few times. Her life was going downhill. I wanted to help, but I didn't know how, and I was distracted by my own new situation and new friends and new life. We drifted further apart. At some point somebody (my brother?) told me that Julie was having serious mental health problems. Her father had involuntarily committed her to a mental health institution. The next time I went home, I made sure to see her. I went to visit her in her tiny little basement apartment, where she lived with her dog, who ate the pompom off my hat.
She had gained a lot of weight. She hated her shit job. She was broke. She had stopped playing almost all of her sports, except for the occasional game of hockey. She was clearly severely depressed. The waves of pain seemed to roll off her. I told her that I, too, had gone through a severe depression. I told her that if she wanted to talk to me, I would be happy to listen. I told her I wouldn't judge her. She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed me the scars on her arm. I had another friend who cut herself, so this wasn't completely out of the realm of my experience, but the sheer scale of what she showed me shocked the hell out of me. Gashes, some old and pale, some red and raw, in lines, up and down her arm, new ones over old, on every exposed inch of skin. I hope I didn't let her see how afraid for her I suddenly got. I didn't know what to say. She told me that the scars where everywhere. All over her legs, her chest, her stomach. She told me how she couldn't help it, how it was the only way she could feel any relief. She told me how she had to wear long pants and long-sleeved shirts with high necks, all the time. She told me about her suicide attempt. She told me about the institution she'd been committed to, the counselling groups, the inpatient and outpatient programs, the doctors who never seemed to understand her, who just prescribed drugs that made her feel ill and didn't help. She told me that nobody could help her. I told her that I didn't think she was crazy. I told her that I cared about her. I didn't know what else to say. I gave her my phone number in Boston. I told her that if she ever wanted to talk, she should call me. I thought that at least she was getting help. At least there were people watching over her.
Shortly after I returned to Boston, I became very ill. I had to take a year and a half off of school. I went through another major depression. I am ashamed to say that I forgot about Julie. A couple of years later when I had managed to get myself back to some semblance of health, I went by her Mum's house while I was on a visit home. Nobody was there. I called and left a message. Nobody called back. I didn't think much of it. I didn't go home much to visit anymore, so somehow I never managed to go by the house again.
Over the years, I thought about Julie occasionally. I wondered how she was. I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people, to my chagrin. I kept thinking that the next time I went home, I'd call her and go and see her. But there never was a next time. About a year ago, I was talking with my brother, and he mentioned that Julie was dead. She had killed herself. I'm not even sure when. My brother was surprised that I didn't know. It turns out that my mother knew, and never told me, because she didn't think I could deal with it.
I wish I could have helped her. I wish I could have done something. More than anything, I wish I could have realized way back then what I'm pretty certain of now. I think that Julie was sexually abused by her older brother, and perhaps by her father. I think that she fought against what that did to her, and she fought hard, but in the end, it killed her. Because she has been silenced, and because I doubt that anybody ever spoke up for her, I thought that I would. I wish she was here to read this.
No Pity. No Shame. No Silence.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/misia/445834.html