eight problems

Eight Reasons
-Mineme Greens

I write this from my laptop, in my own little room, in my own little rehabilitation center.  My name is Mineme Greens, I am seventeen and I’ve always tried to lead a quiet life, without attracting any notice from others my age.  I go to a public school where I have no friends, and really don’t want any.  I have a B average, and many people who saw me would say my life was perfect.  I had the nicest clothes, I had the nicest computer, the nicest school supplies, and many would say I had the nicest parents.

Problem One: My Parents

Yeah, I know that every teenager has the classic “I hate my parents, and they’ll never understand me” attitude, but I shall explain my case. 
Have you ever walked three blocks from your house, down the street to get a soda from the corner store?  I haven’t.  I’ve ever been able to go anywhere or do anything without having mommy and daddy holding baby Mineme’s hand.  You probably are thinking that I’m overreacting, and that they are only trying to protect me, but you’re wrong. 
I have never been to a friend’s house, I have never been to a non-school hosted party, and I have never been to the mall, the movies, or any manner of restaurant.  That is, without my parents being there too. It doesn’t help that parental unit number one (my mother) works for the school district, and lords over all my teachers either.
So if I have such cool parents why am I in a rehabilitation center?

Problem Two: the object of Mineme
         
I always think my parents see me as more of an object than a person, or maybe a pet on good days.  I am an extremely fragile thing that my parents feel that they need to shield from the real world.  They do a good job of it too, because of them, I have never tried drugs, stolen stuff, broke the law, or even gotten a detention.  A spotless record.

Problem three:  The real Mineme Greens

         I am not an object.  I, like every other person, have certain needs and emotions that need to be fulfilled.  I had nothing.  I had nothing that I could call my own.  I wanted to-No!- Needed to change that.  I wanted a life.  Not a life where I was a pawn destined to grow up and be a super brain-surgeon, who’d marry a millionaire supermodel. 
          So I tried something new. 



Problem four:  What I tried

I cut myself.  I cut myself on the back of my ankle because I knew that people would only look at my wrists if they suspected anything.  From then on whenever my parents denied me freedom I would add another red slit to my leg.

No, you cannot see a movie
Slit
No, you cannot join the soccer team
Slit
No, you cannot go outside

The scars were the only things that I had ever been able to call my own.  It wasn’t long until I had scars and marks running up the entire back of my calf.  When I was in a good mood, sometimes I’d actually write things, but not deep enough to scar. 
Things like

Freedom,

Hope,

Love.

Problem five:  Busted

Life was good for a while.  I was actually happy.  I had things that belonged to me, that my parents would never be able to control.  How foolish my thoughts were.
In my grand scheme of things, I had overlooked a few minor details.  One detail in particular hit me in the face when the new semester started at my school.
My first class was chemistry, followed by physics, History and P.E.  I was looking forward to P.E.  I liked P.E. because it allowed me to release all of my emotions and energy, and I wasn’t afraid to get into the games and dominate.  This semester’s bonus was that our school had finally ditched the old uniforms and paid for cool new blue ones. 
We each got our new uniform as we walked into the girl’s locker room.  As I undressed, I didn’t notice that the cool new uniforms had shorts instead of sweatpants as I rushed out onto the field to play soccer with my class. 
I rocked on the field.  I scored six goals against the boy’s team, and our team won.  The coach congratulated me on another well earned victory, and offered again to see if I would join the Girl’s school team.  I had always wanted to, but my parents would never have let me, so I sadly told him no before going inside to change.
That night there was a call from the coach.



Problem six:  my help?

My parents found out, and were shocked.  I wouldn’t talk to them, as my mom was in hysterics and my dad was a screaming nightmare.  What upset me most was that they weren’t trying to talk about it, they just got pissed at me. It wasn’t their leg, why should they care?
The next day there was a meeting.  Coach Hill, the school councilor, my parents and me, all sitting in a little room at a round table, sounds like fun huh?  My parents had calmed down and were asking questions now, I didn’t care about them, but I felt bad that I’d upset Coach Hill.  I didn’t speak much during the meeting, and my parents spoke for me, not only putting words in my mouth, but making up crap too. In the end, after checking her notes, the councilor told everyone that this was a cry for attention. 
That’s when I lost it.

Problem seven:  My opinion

         I honestly don’t remember mush of what happened next, but coach told me that I went berserk.  I stood up on the table and started shouting at everyone.  I told them all that it wasn’t a freaking call for attention, but a cry or freedom,  but a cry for independence and a bunch of other things.  Apparently I picked kicked over a trash can, and threw a chair. Coach said I put some of his top football players to shame with my arm. 
I ended up curling up in a corner and passing out.

Problem eight:  Now

So now I’m here.  At this particular rehabilitation center, every patient, or “Guest”  gets their own room.  It is a youth center, so everyone is high school age.  There are no sharp objects to cut yourself with, and there are no drugs, alcohol or parental contact, although they get weekly reports.  Every patient is given a laptop to “record our feelings” in.  They say that they’ll never read them, but I’m pretty sure the doctors check it nightly. 
I don’t care, let them.
         For once I think I’m happy.  I’ve met some girls my age with their own stories, and we hang out, or play games.  We can do anything here!  There’s cooking, painting, drawing, ceramics, creative writing, and of course sports, where I dominate the fields.          I fit in here.  I have my own life, away from them.  I sent a video letter to Coach Hill telling him about how much I love it here, but I miss his constant cheering.  I hope he sends a reply.  I think I’ll wrap this up now, I’m getting sleepy and I’ll need all the rest I can get.  Tomorrow I’m trying out for lacrosse!