#Don Callis count your days bitch

[paradoxunknown]

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DON YOU GIVE KENNY HIS FUCKING PHONE BACK RIGHT NOW YOU WHORE.

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“The Olive Branch” by Callie H.

I never wanted to be known as the girl who tried to kill herself. I never wanted to be known as the girl who cried herself to sleep, her own embrace the arms of a nursery rocking chair. I woke up every morning and plastered on lipstick to cover up the lips bitten raw, smeared on concealer to cover up the dark circles, and donned nice dresses to distract from my shaking hands. I wanted to be the girl that everyone chuckled over being put together on two hours of restless sleep. I wanted to be the girl that everyone envied for writing a prized essay five minutes before class started. I wanted to know that girl. I wanted to stare in the mirror and repeat her name until it was so familiar that it might as well been my own.

I have been called a “success story”. A “high functioning” member of the mental health community. The self-satisfying part of myself turns into a purring cat, leaning into the praising endearments. I cloaked my symptoms in dimpled smiles and used metaphors as a coping mechanism. Some people write memoirs about their battle with mental illness. Some host marathons in their honor. I decided to get a tattoo.

It was a bitch of a February. Gray sludge oozed from front windshield wipers, and jagged air nipped at bundled-up zombies as they shuffled past, looking for their mid-morning caffeine fix. Starbucks always had a certain air about it in the winter. These were the months when all anyone wanted was a hot cup of solitude and the shy kiss of summer. I had never liked the colder months much and cursed my mother for not having waited to have me when the temperature reached above freezing. But alas, I was stuck with my late January birthday. This particular year I had gotten the gift of rebellion, at least what counted as rebellion in my nuclear suburban family. I had been secretly scheming for this tattoo for a year, and I would casually mention the topic in between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes at dinner. My parents would give me a stern look that conveyed years of “we’re not telling you again”s and  “not under my roof”s. Despite this, I had somehow conned my mother onto my side, who in turn somehow convinced my father; I was getting a tattoo.

Two weeks after watching my mother squirm as tattoo artist permanently marked my skin, I found myself walking into Starbucks. It took a lot to convince myself to get out of my warm car and walk the ten feet to the door, but the feat was worth it as I was embraced by a tinkling bell, warm air, and Mumford and Sons. The intimate bookmark of my mental health journey, my little tattoo, was safe beneath my winter jacket. I sat my debilitatingly heavy backpack down at the nearest table and made my way over to the barista manning the cash register. The worker was an elderly man named David who had worked there for as long as I could remember. A sort of bond formed between us during my daily coffee study-sessions over our similar views on politics and black coffee. On this particular day I remember my nose being cold, and I smiled at him before ordering my typical drink of choice.

“One grande vanilla latte for miss California,” he intoned, writing my name on the red holiday cup and smiling at me. I rolled my eyes at the false, elongated variation of my name and shook my head. Holding out my phone for him to scan my digital card he paused, turning my wrist over. “Is that a tattoo?” he said, raising his eyebrows. I laughed at his shock and turned my wrist so he could see more clearly. “Just a square?” he prompted, leaning his hands against the counter. “What does it mean?”

My mind instantly flashed to the kind smile of the tattoo artist as she, for the fifth time, replaced the outline of my tattoo for my liking. I nodded to her as she stepped back for me to observe it: it was perfect. Her steady hands began to outline of my square tattoo, and I remember telling her why I decided to get it. I explained it over sharp breaths as the needle probed the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.

“It’s a mental health symbol, for me. I guess it is a physical reminder that I survived and overcame my dark times,” I said, shrugging my shoulders to shake off the frog that was making a home in my throat.

“That’s really amazing. My daughters have both dealt with similar things so I appreciate you sharing that,” he said, shooting me a wink before heading off to make my drink. I took a deep breath, realizing that I would, in the near and distant future, be explaining my tattoo many times. I was shaken from my internal soliloquy by a pair of nervous hands. I looked up from my shoes I was zoning out towards to see a young, female barista holding my coffee out to me.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I overheard what you told David about your tattoo. I just wanted to thank you because I have bipolar disorder and anxiety and, well, this is my first job. It’s just really cool that you’re willing to talk about your own mental health stuff and destigmatize it.” She blurted it out so quickly that I barely had time to register her words before she turned back to the coffee machine. I uttered a half-coherent response, thanking her for saying something, and retreated back to my seat, my fingers aimlessly tracing my tattoo on my wrist.

I always knew that I got my tattoo for me. I got it on my wrist so that I could see it everyday as I went about my life. I wanted a physical reminder of my internal battle scars. I wanted an external symbol of the bandages that went on the inside. My mental health is a part of who I am, and who I will always be. I never knew that my small square tattoo would be a symbol for others, an olive branch in this hectic world of apathy. People saw it as a promise to listen. People saw it as a promise to care.

After all these years I never became the girl that I had always imagined I’d be. I never joined the cheerleading squad, ran for prom court, won a mathletes tournament, or found the true meaning of life. Instead, I saved my own life. I woke up one day to find myself on the back of a white stallion on my way to save myself from a tower. I found myself able to help others through my own experiences and, despite the trials I went through to get there, that’s what truly matters.