(This is the last part in this long-ass series. I posted parts four through seven last night at about 9pm, so if you haven't read since then... well... sorry.)

Mom and Dad showed up and were being shown to their seats. Mom saw me in the bar and I saw that look on her face. The look that said I knew I was doing something wrong and to get out of there right now. Bing looked at me and whether he saw that I was really fucked up, or decided that since only a quarter of my beer was gone, he shook his head at Mom and told her to leave me be, that I was fine.

I smiled softly to both Ben and Butch and thanked them. They understood that I meant more than just for the beer, but for keeping me on the positive side of sanity. I joined my parents and family and just sat there in silence throughout the meal. I didn�t eat much of mine.

I stayed silent throughout the rest of that feast. That�s when Mom first commented on the scratches on my wrist. I said that I�d been picking black berries and had gotten caught up in them. She either bought it, or didn�t feel like pressing me.

We got back to Tacoma and I went back to school. I stopped attending some of my classes. I stopped paying attention. I stopped caring. I didn�t talk. I didn�t really function much. That winter, the day before Christmas of 90, I really did it. I planned to kill myself.

I had spent the previous week cleaning my room. I had everything neat and orderly. that night I sat on my bed. I had my very first To Whom It May Concern book open to the page where I�d written my �will�. I sat back on my bed with a couple towels. A huge beach towel on top. For the next three hours, I sprayed topical anesthetic on my left wrist, then cut deep. Then watched my wrist as it blead on the towel. then I would wait until it started to hurt and I would spray more of the anesthetic on my wrist. I would cut deeper and I would watch it bleed.

For about three hours I did this, maybe a little longer. All in silence. Finally I started feeling tired and I had used up all of the anesthetic. So I started cutting again, deeply, I followed the vein. I made many different deep cuts along the length of the vein. I watched it bleed. I filled up that towel with my blood.

I remember thinking my hands looked really interesting when the skin looked so ultra-white. *shrugs*

I�m not sure if I just got tired, but I know that I bled a lot. I know that I felt weak and completely unmotivated to move my hand. I wanted to cut deeper. I wanted to cut again. I wanted to cut until I couldn�t feel anymore. And I kept bleeding.

I don�t remember falling asleep. I remember waking up to the sound of my mother knocking irritatedly on my door, telling me that we had to go and I�d better get ready. I remember looking down at the open wound of my wrist. I remember having to very carefully remove the razor blade because it was stuck to the inside of my wrist.

I remember that when I started to move my left wrist, it moved weird. I can�t quite explain how, but... it just felt weird. I remember rolling up that beach towel with so much blood on it. I remember wrapping it inside the other towel. I remember closing my notebook and putting it away. I remember stuffing the towel in the back of my closet.

I remember taking a long-sleeved shirt and a bandage into the bathroom with me. I remember placing the two inch by three inch bandage over the gaping hole in my wrist. I put on the shirt and my jeans and I was in the car.

I was silent. I didn�t care. I didn�t talk, I wasn�t there. I didn�t understand why I wasn�t dead. I thought God had rejected me. I thought I had died and been rejected so I had to live in hell a little longer.

I suppose that was a waking point for me? Dunno. I remember that I just started functioning again. Not that I wanted to, but... it was kind of like, if I have to be here, there�s no use in my just sitting in hell, I might as well take a walk.

I remember in March Dan was up from college for a week, visiting his folks. He came by to visit Mom and Dad. We talked. For a long time. And we were outside. I was in that big black sweater and a pair of jeans and bare feet. And it was cold on the ground. And I felt the rocks under my feet but I couldn�t force myself to go back inside. We talked for about an hour. Or rather, I talked and that was finally wrapped up with my looking at him with tears running down my cheeks.

I looked at him and said that I was terrified of what was inside me. I was terrified of what was in my head.

He looked at me and softly said that he wasn�t afraid of what I was.

Many, many, many times I�ve thought back on that night. Those words. The terror and confusion I felt and the calm, gentle, unassuming way he said those words. He wasn�t afraid of me. It was okay. If he wasn�t afraid, then I would make it.

I knew that. I didn�t know how I would make it, but I knew I would make it. If he said he wasn�t afraid of what I was, there was hope for me.

I didn�t �make it� until just recently. Just the past few months. But I did make it.

So, what do I want to say about all this? What is my point? Other than purging thoughts, ideas and feelings I�ve kept deep inside me for so long I can�t comprehend it?

To anyone who has ever gone through something like that... to anyone who has ever felt betrayed by everything they�ve ever known, parents, family, church, friends, religion, God, and themselves... I�ve been there. I understand. I know what it�s like.

And, I�m not afraid of what you are. You are not evil. You are not bad. You are not a whore. It is not your fault. You didn�t ask for it, no matter how you were dressed, no matter what you said, no matter what you did, you didn�t ask for it. I�m not afraid of who you are. I�ve been there. I�ve walked that path. I�ve crawled that path. I�ve cowered on that path.

I�m not afraid of what you are.

If you�ve never been through it, Good! If you ever find yourself in a situation you don�t like, like that, like a guy or girl kissing you against your will, it�s okay to say no. It�s okay to scream no. It�s okay to bite, kick, claw, punch, slap, yank, hit. it�s okay to say no.

If you�ve been through it, You are NOT diseased. you are NOT bad. you are NOT evil. And it�s NOT your fault.

If you�re scared and you feel alone, you are NOT alone. There are people out there who have been where you are. You are not defective. You are not broken or diseased or wrong. You did not ask for it. And I�m not afraid of what you are.

Jennifer Marie Craig Zimmerman Davis

[email protected]

P. O. Box 684

Long Beach, WA. 98631-0684

If you need someone to talk to, Email me and I�ll send you my phone number. It�s my private line. I�m the only one who answers the phone and I�m the only one who gets the messages.

I�m not afraid of what you are.