Don't Speak

 

A song can be a powerful bookmark in our lives.  I think this is especially true when we hear a song that resonates with what we're experiencing at that particular moment.  I had this idea the other day to write about some of the songs that are bookmarks for me; the ones that helped me get through tough times by realizing the stuff happening to me had happened to someone else first.  According to Google, No Doubt released Tragic Kingdom in October 1995.  I didn't even know they existed until the summer of 1996, when I first heard Gwen Stefani singing her epic breakup song: Don't Speak.

I was at home in my bedroom, kneeling beside my bed, tinkering around with an old Zippo lighter.  I'm not sure where I got it, but I thought it was the absolute coolest fidget toy before they were a thing.  I had started sneaking the occasional cigarette at that time in my life, and I felt so cool lighting them with it.  That afternoon, I was disassembling it to inspect all of the pieces and learn how it worked.  I pulled the guts out of its case.  I unscrewed the flint screw, removing the spring, tip, and worn flint.  I thought it was neat how they stored extra flints under the felt pad, and I was impressed that the wadding could hold lighter fluid without leaking.  I saturated the wadding with fresh fluid and began reassembling it.  I was nearly finished when a hand darted over my shoulder, grabbed the metal case, and retreated behind me.  It was my sister.  I hadn't heard her come in.  I stood up and she started peppering me with questions: "Where did you get this?" "Why do you have it?" "What are you doing with that lighter fluid?"  Then she said, "You're going to be in so much trouble when Dad wakes up".  I was pissed.  She didn't realize that she only grabbed the case, leaving the functioning bits in my hand.  I thought if I could get the case back and stash the lighter somewhere, I could tell my dad that she was just making up a story to get me in trouble.  He knew we did that sometimes to misdirect his anger.  She had gotten in hot water recently for staying out too late on a date.

I admit that I didn't really think my next actions through very well.  Many years earlier, my dad showed me this badass trick where you can use a can of Lysol and a lighter to torch a hornets nest.  By spraying into the flame, it created a magnificent fireball with limited range (thanks for the image, ChatGPT).  In case you're wondering, the hornets won.  So here I am, in a standoff with my sister in our hallway, with a bottle of lighter fluid in one hand and a caseless Zippo in the other.  She was about 10 feet or so from me, her back against her bedroom door.  I thought I would terrify her just enough with a harmless, short-range fireball that she'd just give me the case and we'd go back to minding our own business.  It was an epic fail that almost caused a house fire.  You see, the difference between the flammable aerosol and a stream of lighter fluid is that the lighter fluid falls to the floor while it's burning, while the aerosol disintegrates almost immediately.  My mistake successfully laid down a line of flames in our hallway carpet.  She screamed bloody murder, escaped to her room, and locked the door.  I quickly smothered the flames, but not before I heard my dad hollering from his room, "What the hell is going on out there?".  She yelled from behind her door, "Dave is trying to set me on fire with lighter fluid!".  Holy shit.  This escalated quickly.  I bailed out the back door and ran to a small barn nearby.  Meanwhile, she emerged from her room, locked our exterior doors, and got my dad up from his nap.

As I tried to calm down in the barn, I realized I was in some serious trouble.  I figured I might as well have a smoke, but my cigarettes were in my room under my bed.  I kept my bedroom window unlocked, so I figured I could sneak up to the trailer and be in and out before they even knew it.  Once again, I was wrong.  As I was sliding the window open, a baseball bat tore through my curtain and nearly hit me in the face.  I started running back towards the barn when I heard my dad tell her to throw it at me.  The bat slammed into my back a nanosecond later, knocking me to the ground.  I got up and limped to the safety of the barn.  I grew even more enraged as I sat in pain.  I could feel my anger growing inside me like never before.  I wanted to hurt someone, but I was the only person around.  Sometimes I'd squeeze my hands or legs as hard as I could or hold my breath until I nearly lost consciousness to contain my frustration.  None of that worked this time.  I didn't exactly learn any constructive anger management techniques from my dad.  I saw an old disposable razor laying nearby and decided to see what kind of damage I could do with it.  I had accidentally cut my thumb with one, so I knew it had potential.  I wanted to cut deeply enough to draw blood, but not do any serious (life-threatening) harm.  I managed to break one of the small blades out of the razor head.  I held it between my thumb and index finger, carefully adjusting it so that only a small (maybe 1/4") amount of blade was exposed, then I sliced across the back of my other forearm as hard as I could.  It felt like a scratch, but it bled enough that I was satisfied.  With each cut, I felt just a little bit of my anger recede.  I want to stop here and say loud and clear to my readers:  Self-harm might feel like a release in the moment, but it doesn’t solve what’s underneath the anger—it only adds more hurt. You’re worth finding healthier ways to cope, and there are plenty that don't leave scars.

I thought that if my dad saw that I had already punished myself, he might just take it easy on me.  I walked into the backyard, blood streaming down my arm so that he could see the shape I was in.  It took about 2 seconds to realize I was wrong.  Again.  Between his screaming and my sister throwing all kinds of things - coffee cups, books, baseballs - at me in the yard, I realized that he wasn't going to calm down.  If he weren't confined to that wheelchair, I think he would have absolutely stomped me.  Once again, I retreated to the barn.  I still had the lighter and fluid with me, which gave me another bad idea.  I thought I'd write a message for him on the road in front of our home.  In huge capital letters, I wrote F-U-#-K  Y-O-U on the road with lighter fluid and ceremoniously lit it aflame with my caseless Zippo.  My words came to life - literally.  I was honestly a bit impressed because the letters looked almost holographic in dancing flames.  I knew lighter fluid burns off quickly, so my hope was that it would burn just long enough to piss my dad off even more when he saw it.  He always said I was a glutton for punishment.  Well, dad, how do you like me NOW?  But the flames didn't burn out.  They died down a bit, but then began to grow intense.  What I didn't think about was that the road had been recently tar-and-chipped.  It's a low-budget way of paving rural roads, where they spray a thick layer of oily tar and then broadcast stone chips into it.  I had literally lit the road on fire.  Dammit.

I managed to stomp the flames out just before the police arrived.  My dad had called the cops on me.  I suppose it was justifiable.  After all, I had threatened harm to my sister and was now setting things ablaze.  They cuffed and stuffed me into the back of their cruiser, then spent what felt like hours talking to my dad.  They took me to the station and ran me through the process - fingerprinting and all.  I was silent.  I didn't say a word.  I refused to answer their questions.  They told me that since I was only 15, I had two choices.  I could either go to a juvenile detention center, where I'd surely meet some other kids who were way tougher and meaner than I (their words).  Or, thanks to the damage I did to my arm, I could spend a week in the hospital under a psych evaluation.  I had seen enough movies about what happens in juvie, so I spoke only one word to them: "Hospital".

I honestly don't remember what the hell we did or talked about in that hospital.  I remember that it felt safe, and I liked that.  I also remember that most of the patients got visitors, but nobody came for me until the day I got discharged.  What I remember most is the moment I saw Jade.  Obviously, that wasn't her actual name.  Just barely 16, Jade had taken her parents' car without their permission and accidentally sideswiped another car at a gas station.  When the police arrived, she was hysterical.  She was so upset about what she had done and said some things she didn't really mean, like "I wish I'd just die".  I'm glad the first responders took things seriously; otherwise, Jade may have hurt herself, and I wouldn't have met her.  Jade was an absolute stunner.  She was beautiful, tall with long blonde hair, smart, and she had this incredible free-spirit personality.  I was instantly attracted to her.  I couldn't believe that this sweet, cheerful girl ended up in a place like this.  Jade and I hit it off quickly.  She had arrived a few days before me, so she showed me around the place.  We flirted with each other a lot.  She held my hand while we sat and talked about our lives.  She was way out of my league, so I was thrilled to be her friend for a few days.  Her parents came to visit a couple of times while she was there.  It was a long drive for them - a little more than an hour each way from Scranton to Danville.  I wondered if she mentioned me during their visits.  I never met them, but I didn't expect to.  As far as they knew, I was just some crazy, troubled kid.  I wondered if Jade and I would have ever connected in life outside of this place.  She was definitely the light for me in what was an otherwise dark time in my life.  When her discharge day came, I became distant.  I knew she was leaving, but couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye.  She found me sitting alone, gently grabbed my hand, and said, "Come here, I want you to listen to something with me."  She led me over to the media room and picked up a CD.  On the album cover was a tall, beautiful woman holding an orange in her hand.  She had a crazy resemblance to Jade.  She pulled out the disc, put it into the player, pressed a few buttons, and then sat down beside me as the slow intro to Don't Speak began to play.  We were both in tears by the time the song ended.  My stomach sank as I realized I'd probably never see her again.  She turned to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and rested her head on my shoulder.  We sat quietly, embracing each other for our last minutes together.  Then, without saying a word, she stood up, wiped her tears, smiled once more with her kind eyes, and she was gone.

I was discharged a few days later.  When my dad arrived, he asked if I wanted to go home.  I nodded and we left.  For the next few weeks, my sister shuttled me back to Danville as recommended by my doctors to attend some group therapy sessions with other teens.  It really helped to know that I wasn't alone in my struggles and to talk with them about how I was feeling.  But it didn't last long.  My dad thought therapy was bullshit and, to be honest, we probably didn't have the gas money for it.  I bought that album as soon as I could.  I didn't know the name of the band or the song, but I knew there was a beautiful woman holding up an orange on the cover.  I found it, bought it, and lost myself in that song hundreds of times.  To this day, I remember it was the 10th track on the album.  I'm not sure there's a lesson in this story, but I do feel better sharing it with you.  One of the promises of AA is: We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.  That promise has come true for me.  I no longer seek refuge from my past mistakes.  I accept that those experiences were just part of the journey in becoming who I am and that sharing those experiences might just help others, too.