By
Miriam Cho
Radcliff, Kentucky

“I’m sooo emo!” the dejected character screeched on the computer screen. He licked a plastic gun, wallowing in self-pity and supposedly contemplating death. Giggles resounded throughout the basement, as my friends watched one of many videos on the Internet poking fun at “emo” teens.

Emo was a recent stereotype that had seeped into teenage society. Guys were adopting tight-fitting girl jeans and black fingernails. Emo clichés were posted on Myspace pages. Countless gags emerged in conversations about someone “cutting” themselves after the slightest drama.

The wretched kid continued whimpering. We couldn’t have laughed anymore without breaking our ribs. Generously, I volunteered to settle our hysteria with refreshments.

While heading to the kitchen, I faintly heard sniffles muffled by the bathroom walls. I gently turned the knob, but it immediately halted as a weak voice murmured, “Who’s there?”

I was startled to find my friend, Jenna, crouched in the corner, hurriedly wiping her obvious tears. “Jenna, what’s wrong?” I asked, rushing to her.

“Nothing”, she declared feebly.

I pushed her matted, damp bangs out of her puffy eyes. “Something is wrong.” Hugging her close, I coaxed, “You can tell me…”

The tears returned, streaming down her flushed cheeks. “Okay,” she whispered, “but promise you won’t tell anyone.” I nodded numbly into her piercing, grave eyes.

“I promise…it’s a secret.” Little did I know that I would soon deeply regret those words.

“Well…during the video, I left because I felt uncomfortable laughing at emo people. No, not the imitators you see at school,” she defended, “I mean real depressed people who cut themselves…because…,” she abruptly stopped, afraid to continue. “I am one!” she shrieked before collapsing. I cradled her fragile body, shocked by her confession.

“What do you mean?” I gasped.

“It’s just – I hate my life!” she admitted. “When I come home, my parents yell at me for no good reason. It’s, ‘Jenna, you didn’t tell us we had to wait that long to pick you up!’ Or “You’re always with your friends; don’t you ever spend time with us?’ Just little, stupid things.” She buried her head in her hands, seething in frustration.

“So…are you cutting yourself?”

Jenna solemnly nodded and pulled up her sleeve, revealing several ghastly scabs that clashed with the former beauty of her pale skin. “It’s the only way I can free my pain. No one wants to hear my problems, so I just work it out myself.” She jerked down her sleeve. “It’s immature how people think it’s cool to be emo…because it’s not,” she finished, lowering her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled pathetically, not knowing how to console her.

“It’s okay. But remember, you can’t tell.”

The next day, I viewed Jenna in a completely different light. I couldn’t believe my friend was resorting to self-injury to elude her problems. She was a starkly different figure at school, chattering and laughing with friends. No one deciphered her inner turmoil, her life of pain. I was the sole carrier of her sorrows.

And the only person that could help, I quickly realized. By keeping silent, I only allowed Jenna to keep harming herself. There were better solutions without inflicting physical wounds. But I needed assistance from someone knowledgeable about cutting, who could alleviate Jenna’s depression.

Turning to someone else, however, breached my promise. If I told, would Jenna still consider me a friend? Could I face her through my shame?

Then I visualized Jenna’s mutilated arms in that fateful bathroom encounter. The hideous scars. The skin that would never heal.
I made my decision.

Finally, at the end of the week, I gathered enough guts to enter the school’s counseling office. I was apprehensive of the concerned counselor at first, but I eventually spilled everything I had heard from Jenna’s lips. It was relieving to release the burden on my chest and allow an adult control the situation.

Jenna was soon meeting therapists to conquer her depression. She didn’t look at me for while, causing me occasional pangs of regret. But overall, I knew the cost was worth Jenna’s happiness.

Our discord gradually blew over, and we started talking again. After Jenna dropped cutting, she thanked me personally for rescuing her from a possible tragedy. We even grew closer, having overcome this adversity.

Has a friend revealed a secret placing their life in jeopardy if you told or not? Please tell someone so they can get help. Because even if trust is important, saving a friend is far more precious.