We are pleased to post the second place winning essay in this past winter’s Writing It Real essay contest. Our guidelines said the number 12 was to be somewhere in the essay in honor of Writing It Real’s 12th Anniversary. Our guest judge, Midge Raymond, co-founder of Oregon’s Ashland Creek Press, chose Maureen Mistry’s “The Silent Scream” in second place saying, “This eye-opening and compassionate twelve-part essay shows two sides of a troubled childhood in the alternating points of view of a parent and son as they navigate the tensions of adolescence from different perspectives. The honesty of the writer in revealing her challenges as a parent and her empathetic rendering of her son’s point of view offer readers a compelling, and important, glimpse of parenthood.

The Silent Scream
by Maureen Mistry

1

Things changed dramatically in our household when my son Gavin turned 15.  I lived in dread of the now constant disagreements with my formerly happy-go-lucky son, followed inevitably by frantic telephone calls he didn’t answer as I sought to track his whereabouts. The worst of it was that our disagreements usually unleashed a bout of self-harm.

2

In many schools in Denmark, the students have the same teacher from the first to the ninth grade. Sometimes a class would get a new teacher say in the sixth or seventh grade, but the kids usually remained together. It is, therefore, tough for a new kid to break into this tightly knit class community.

When I was thirteen, my parents felt the school was to blame for my poor grades, and enrolled me in a private school a few kilometers from our home.

My protests did nothing to change their mind. The thought of riding the bus alone to a school where I didn’t know anyone scared me.

At my new school, I was shocked to see my classmates sneak off to the creek behind the school to smoke. These kids my age, boasted about alcohol intake.

I did my best to show my teachers how good I was academically. This caused the boys in my class to pick on me for being smart. At first, this didn’t bother me, but then they switched to insults and racial slurs. What really pissed me off was when they started insulting my family.

I told my parents about the teasing and my dad spoke to the Principal, but nothing changed.

As things got worse in school, it began to go bad at home as well. I was angry with my parents for changing my school and I hated being part of a family who made matters worse by going to church every Sunday, making me feel even more different from all the others. That was when I started running away. Well not in the strict sense, because at home they thought they knew where I was, only I wasn’t were they thought I was.

I took the bus for school at six in the morning, so I wouldn’t meet anyone from my new school. At this time of the morning, usually the only other person on the bus apart from the driver was an old lady from Greenland.

At first she smiled at me as I got on the bus; later as we saw each other every day, she began asking how I was. Eventually, I looked forward to getting on the bus on those cold mornings, just to talk with her about her day before and let her know about mine.

Once I told her about the bullying in school, and she said to me, “You should always be yourself and not care about what other people say about you. You are special, and don’t ever forget it.” 

Right after my thirteenth birthday, I let her know I had just had a birthday and the next morning on the bus, she gave me a present. I forget now what it was. I remember feeling so happy to receive this that tears welled up in my eyes. Since my grandparents did not live in Denmark, it felt good to have an older person that was not my parent, someone almost like a granny. Every morning as I got on the bus for school, I looked forward to meeting my friend.

This bus trip lasted for thirteen minutes, and then I would change to another bus, to one I began to think of as my torture chamber. On this bus, no matter how early it was, I invariably met someone from school, and sometimes my ordeal started even before I got to school.

Leaving home so early also meant I got to school about forty-five minutes before the school start. I would then go in to the school yard, hang around until just before the start of the first lesson, and then head back to the bus stop and take the bus back home to Holte, where we lived.  I usually stopped off at the city centre to kill time until the shops opened.

From the shops, I would move to the library and take over a computer until about noon. By this time, I was sure my parents would be at work, both parents sometimes met late at work, and so by noon I was certain I would have the house to myself. I would go home, make a bowl of cereal, and settle in front of the TV to eat, enjoying the fact that I had skipped school and escaped another rough day.

3

By age 15, Gavin had clearly had enough of the way we were bringing all of our children up in an atmosphere of family prayers, faith projects, and church attendance. Most days were fraught with tension at home, but Sundays were the worst.  To avoid Sunday morning quarrels, we stopped making him go to church with us.

4

One of the few days I stayed in school, our teacher changed the schedule so that instead of having gym at the end of the day, we had it in the morning. This meant we would have to shower before the next class. When I pulled my pants down to shower, one of the bullies looked at me and screamed, “Gayvin is a nigger Jew!” and the other boys burst out laughing, hooting and shouting.

I hurriedly pulled my clothes back on and in tears ran up the stairs and out of the building. I ran without looking back, and ran, not only from embarrassment, not only from the laughing bullies and confused teachers, but also from whom I was.

Frustrated, I took the wrong bus, and when I realized what I had done, I stepped out at the next stop and called my mother to tell her I was never ever going back to that school again.

My parents eventually realized how tough that school had been for me and moved me back to my old school and class.

But things had changed; I had been away for almost two years and new bonds had been forged in my absence.

I am not sure if my desire to be alone came from those years in that horrible school. One thing I know is that being around people especially grownups made my brain to freeze. I never knew what to say and after a while, I stopped trying. At home, I withdrew from my family and started listening to music by groups like Nirvana. I felt they understood me with lyrics such as “I think I’m dumb” and a song titled “I Hate Myself and I Want to Die” (which wasn’t actually a song about dying). When I think about it now, I only liked the title of this song because I found it bold and provocative and I enjoyed letting others know this was what I listened to.

This was cool aggressive stuff, and I felt it gave me the respect I had lost in that terrible school. I liked people knowing I listened to hardcore music and not the rap and pop they all raved about.

I taught myself to play the guitar. My dedication to this instrument was unworldly. During the weekends, I played from morning until evening, only leaving my room to eat or visit with friends. I refused to take part in any family activity.  I remember once my mum begged me to come and sit with them in the living room. I came reluctantly and sat like a rotten apple polluting the air around me with negative vibes. Every time I looked at them, I was just angry.

My mom asked me why I couldn’t just be sociable with them; they were my family after all. I replied, “What do you want me to do? I have nothing in common with you people,” and I stormed out of the room.

I retreated to my room, grabbed my guitar, plugged in my earphones, and played the night away. When I got tired of playing, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall. I felt like a prisoner in my mind.  By ninth grade, I thought my parents would give me more freedom, so I could do whatever I wanted like all my other friends. But it didn’t happen. By tenth grade, I would tell them I was sleeping over at a friend’s house, so I could party the whole night. Sometimes, I wouldn’t bother telling my parents where I was, and wouldn’t pick up my phone when they called.

I was miserable.

5

Once, Gavin told us of a girl at school who cut herself because she was unhappy at home. Then one day after a disagreement at home, my husband confided that he suspected our son was cutting himself. He had gone into his room to return a CD and noticed his bed-sheet had bloodstains. We realized almost at the same time that Gavin now seemed to favor long- sleeved shirts even when the weather was warm.

6

In November 2005, I remembered an article I read in a newspaper on the bus when I still went to the school that changed me. It was an article about cutting, as in practically slitting your wrists, and the writer wrote that a lot of young girls used cutting as coping mechanism for emotional pain.

Remembering this article was like light had flooded into my darkness.  If a single cut on my body could relieve me of the pain in my heart, maybe I didn’t have to suffer so much anymore.

Now 17, I had an afterschool job at a supermarket near my home and we were given box cutters for opening boxes. I usually took my box cutter home with me, and so when I remembered the article on cutting, I got my box cutter out of my desk drawer.  As I sat at my desk, everything became quiet. The mess on my table, even the Jimmy Hendrix song playing in my ear pods on the table, seemed to dim. It was just me and the blade. I think it was around 6pm on a weekday. My dad wasn’t home, my sisters were watching TV, and my mom was in the kitchen cooking dinner.

At this point, I wasn’t even scared about what I was about to do. I felt excited, to see if the cut I was about to make in my skin, would let out the pain, just as air is let out of a balloon.

Of course this wasn’t how it felt after the first cut. I thought perhaps I didn’t do it properly, so I drew a second line through my skin. This time, the cut bled. I panicked, and quickly grabbed a pair of dirty underwear from my clothesbasket to staunch the blood flow.

I didn’t feel anything. No release of pain. But I didn’t feel worse either. The cut had moved my focus from my feelings and I so figured that this must be how it helps the girls they wrote about in the article. I began to cut myself each time I felt unhappy.

It soon became a habit, something I really didn’t think about. I just did it. I wrote some suicide notes during times of real depression. I would write songs and play the guitar, write notes, cut myself, bleed on them and tear or burn the notes in my trashcan.

Sometimes I checked on the Internet to see and read what others were feeling and what they did. It always felt like reading an exciting book; sometimes, I considered if life was worth living. I was very angry with myself, that I was not good enough for people both outside and within the family. I felt hopeless and couldn’t tell anyone. I felt like my hands were tied behind my back and duck tape on my mouth.

As cutting became a habit, I would call my then girlfriend each time I cut myself.I felt pathetic, and the thought of me being pathetic, made me feel even more pathetic. I constantly felt so low and began running away from home. I knew I was making people sad, and this made me feel low.

7

I walked into Gentofte hospital where Gavin, now 18, had spent the night. He lay on his back, motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

A light green curtain around his bed provided the only privacy in this temporary ward

“Why do you do it, Gav?” I asked, coming straight to the point, though keeping my voice mild. I pulled the chair closer to his bed so others wouldn’t hear us

“Why?” I asked again, my eyes riveted on his bandaged left arm.

“You wouldn’t let me go out with my friends; you are always angry and yelling and stuff.”

“But why cut yourself?”

“To punish you,” he said.

The silence hung between us like a slab. His friend John (not his real name) had called me to say Gavin was in hospital. My initial thought was that my son had been in an accident. John was quick to point out that he had cut again, only this time a little too deep.

The incident happened at the supermarket where both boys had after-school jobs. As I drove to the hospital, I worried if this would cost him his job, which would in turn release another cutting spree.

8

One Friday in June during Gavin’s last year in high school, I drove Jennifer, our youngest child, to Gammel Hellerup School to sit for the entrance test that would allow her attend the same school as her siblings. Jennifer was worried about the test and so I promised to stay and wait for her.

At recess, I watched children spill out from various sections of the school into the school courtyard.  I caught sight of Gavin, his hair, a crown of bushy hair he had carried about uncut for four years.  I watched as he and his group claimed an unoccupied bench in the courtyard. Because things had been relatively calm at home, I impulsively decided to go and say hello.

I reached the courtyard as he lit up a cigarette.

He had on a pair of sunglasses that hid his eyes. When he saw me, his hand  dropped to his side, concealing the cigarette.

“Hi Gav’,” I said. His sunglasses looked in my direction, and then looked away.  He said something to a girl seated next to him.

But for my hesitant, “Hi Gav,” which all the kids must have heard, there was no visible sign from my son that he knew me.

I suddenly felt unsure of what to do next. When it became obvious nobody was going to acknowledge my presence, I turned away and slowly walked back to my post outside the classroom. This time Gavin came home after five days, and when I saw him walk through the door, I came to a decision. I demanded he hand over his house keys. He looked surprised, and then handed the keys to me.

“Now get out,” I said, and he left.

That night I did not sleep. The whole night, I tried to justify what I had done.

9

For three years, my husband and I had waited for the rebellious anger Gavin felt for us to dissipate.  We sought to minimize disagreements at home, because they mostly ended with a fresh gash on his arm. As we waited, we prayed, plead and reasoned with him but very little changed.

Our son had become someone we didn’t understand. Someone who found everything we did a source of irritation. Friends and family tried to comfort us by saying that this was teenage behavior that would pass, but none could explain the cutting.

Many times, I felt I could no longer live in the same house with my son; the worst times were when he would go out and not come home nor pick up his phone when we called. The few times when he did pick up his phone, I was giddy with gratefulness; seeing it as a sign that we were nearing the end. But the anxiety was wearying me down.

Sadness hung over our home causing animosity between Gavin and his two younger siblings who saw him as self-centered. Though at 18, he could legally live on his own, my husband and I were too frightened to ask him to leave for fear of making matters worse. I felt like a hostage without hope of being ransomed.

Once, my husband took Gavin to see our doctor, who referred him to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist prescribed some pills, which as a pharmacist, I recognized were of the type meant to tame aggression. Our son was not aggressive. He was just angry and took out his anger on himself. The medication would have made him lethargic.  I discussed my misgivings with my husband and Gavin, and we agreed to throw the pills away.  I didn’t know how to help my son and the pain that caused him to self-harm.  I knew however that the medication the psychiatrist prescribed was not the solution.

Somehow I got through the next day after I asked Gavin to leave, and the next. Mercifully, by the third day, he called home to say he had got a place to stay.

10

After my mom threw me out, a teacher at school advised me to call our kommune (municipality) and tell them I had nowhere to live. The lady I spoke with at the kommune promised to get back to me.

She called back the same day to say could offer me a single room apartment in Holte where we lived when I was a kid and another one in Birkeroed where my parents now lived. I chose the apartment in Birkeroed, which was 185 steps from my parents’ house.

Excited, I called my mom to tell her and to ask if I could come home for a few weeks until my apartment was ready. She said to come.

When I eventually moved into my own apartment, I suddenly felt free.  Now I could do whatever I wanted without my parents interfering. It was easier to fit in with my friends I felt the tension leave me, and one day I said to myself, “Enough is enough;” there was no reason to cut myself anymore and I stopped cutting.

11

Soon after he moved into his own apartment, Gavin called me on the phone one day to ask if I would cut his hair. Just like that. For four years, I begged him to at least trim his hair, but he wouldn’t hear of it, convinced, that it made him look like Jimi Hendrix and so the hair stayed on.

Gavin never apologized for his behavior to me at his school, but when his request for a haircut came, I saw it as an olive branch and I accepted it.

Because he lived close to the house, he would come home sometimes to wash his clothes and occasionally would have dinner with us.

Our relationship improved, but we were careful not to push the boundaries. We started treating him as we would a friend, careful not to give advice unless it was asked for. Since he no longer lived at home, I found I could go to sleep at night with no worries. I no longer stayed awake at night, anxious until I heard his house keys in the lock. Now that he no longer lived at home, strangely I did not worry excessively about what he was up to.

Gavin graduated with the rest of his class and for that I am grateful; his best friends were in his class.

12

Recently, I asked Gavin, now 25, if he felt like talking about the period when he cut himself and he said yes. When I asked his advice to families who are experiencing cutting, he said:

Encourage the kids to talk about it. People who cut feel nobody understands them. I think if I had been sent to a psychologist during my time, it would have made matters worse, because it would confirm that something was wrong with me. I cut myself because it helped the pain. I wanted to be accepted by everyone.

Yet, one would think that something must be wrong when a kid runs away from home and cuts himself.  And the answer is yes. However, in our case what was wrong was a culmination of personal and cultural difficulties.

My family moved to Denmark from Nigeria, when Gavin was seven years old and would start first grade.  During that first year in Denmark, Gavin started to stutter. Years later, I learned this may have been because of the change to environment that initially overwhelmed him.  Eventually the stuttering stopped, but we moved him out of the school where he felt at home to another, he was reminded of his foreignness and was bullied.

He felt  that we did not understand him and could not help him, and in order to cope, bought into what he had read other young people did to manage pain. Cutting became his way of dealing with rejection and pain, and bound him to a fraternity of cutters some of which he found on the Internet.

Culturally, we were atypical of the parents around us. We went to Church twice a week and Gavin rebelled against this once they began to tease him at school. This became a source of further difference from his friends. In his struggle to fight against these differences, he clashed with out values and felt guilty. To avoid the guilt he stayed away from home.

But he was miserable.

Gavin is a well-adjusted young man today, and shows no apparent psychological damage from the sadness that tainted his teenage years.
If we were to turn the clock and relieve those years again, what would I do differently? I would listen more to my son.

One of the things we did right during this dark period was to reject the anti-psychotic drug prescribed by the psychiatrist. What our son needed was acceptance not a pill.