Maybe it's the prednisone

I just had this random memory pop up from my sophomore year of high school.  I guess the recent passing of Malcolm Young of AC/DC made me think of the song "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" which made me think of my friend's little brother who really liked the song.  And then I remembered doing something stupid one afternoon after coming home from school which resulted in my cutting my arm open in three places, and since no one was home at my house, somehow going to the neighbor's across the street with my arms bleeding.  It was just my classmate, and her younger brother and his friends (one of whom was my other friend's brother) home at the time.  They let me in, and I think it was my classmate who took care of me.  But the junior high boys were standing around me, probably a little bit of "Carrie" fascination going on, but I think they were also generally concerned.  Someone got ahold of one of my parents, or someone, because I had to go to the hospital and get stitches.  And I got yelled at for the dumb thing that I did (even if I had a good reason for doing it, it was admittedly the wrong choice: I broke something, that then cut me.)  My family's first reaction at the time tended toward yelling, "Why did you do that?" rather than asking how I was.  Maybe that was a stress reaction.  I imagine they cared on some level, I suppose they had a hard time showing that in a way I could understand.  (Now I would say we had different love languages.  And I understand why I got yelled at, I deserved it, but I also needed the spoken or demonstrated concern for my well being, in a way I could see.)

Anyway, I had just walked into the bathroom when I remembered this, and burst out crying for some reason, my face was soaked.  And I had to stay in there until I stopped and could wipe it with my hands, since I didn't have a towel with me, and I didn't want to freak out my housemate as a sobbing mess.  It was the memory of the junior high kids giving a damn, but even more so, I had friend, and we'd been friends since we were three years old, and I was over at her house a lot, but her father pretty much kept to himself; I don't think in all those years he'd even said a full sentence to me.  He checked up on me that evening to make sure I was okay.   Yeah, that thought of his concern is still making me cry.  He passed away some years ago.

The next day, I went to school with bandages on my arms.  After PE, one of my friends made a half-assed rumor/joke that I'd tried to commit suicide.  The other girls chided me, not in an unkind way, "Liz, why you wanna' kill yourself."  I may have been depressed in 10th grade, but I wasn't suicidal.  Just did dumb shit at times.

And I'm fine, I was having a pretty good day today.  Not sure why I'm remembering that.