Six teeth, an inch of my hair line, a dozen grams of bone mass, my parents' trust, probably a few trillion brain cells, too.
These are just a few of the things I've lost myself in the past ten years that I won't ever get back. Maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have accepted help sooner. Maybe I could have never started at all. But I did, and no one can change the past. As humans, all we can do is look to the future and hope we don't repeat our mistakes.
I'm at least lucky in that I have people hoping and praying for me. I'm hoping too, and even though I'm pretty sure God doesn't exist, I'm praying just in case. Praying that I don't lose my way again. Some people think it was some crazy attempt at killing myself, when really it was quite the opposite. It became the only way I knew how to survive. But there's a lot more to it than that. There always is. This is why it's always best to start at the beginning.
In my earliest memory I was three years old, surrounded by cousins and the children of my mother's friends. It was my birthday and a large sponge cake adorned with marzipan daisies and three small candles sat before me. But I was too distracted by the sight of my aunt's dog chewing at the decorative table cloth to pay any attention to my cake. She was ruining my special day.
I wanted her to call the dog off, or to yell at the dog myself. I wanted it to leave but no words came together from my immature vocabulary. It was my day, everything was supposed to be perfect and now it couldn't be. I didn't notice everyone staring at me until a voice prompted me to blow out the candles and make a wish.
I tore my eyes away from the mangled corner of the table cloth and stared at the tiny flickering flames in front of me. I panicked for a moment, what was I supposed to wish for? The only wishes I recalled were those made to genies in films and picture books. I looked around for my mother instinctively as most children do in a state of distress. I spotted her mopping up apple juice from the floor, reassuring my older brother that he wouldn't get in to trouble for spilling. A flicker of anger passed through me; it was my day, not his.
I felt a gentle nudge to my right and my father motioned toward the candles which were now dripping wax on to the frosting of the cake. I returned my attention to the candles took a deep breath, but out the corner of my eye I could still see my mother, smiling with my brother on her lap. Not smiling at me, just smiling. It was a perfect representation of how a mother and child should look.
As I blew across the cake with all the force I could muster I prayed – rather than wished – that I could be perfect, too.
For such an extraordinary person my brother had an extremely average name: Joe. Not Joseph, NEVER Joseph, just Joe. Our mother took to calling him Joey, so much that most of his elementary school reports were labelled as "Joey Lopez," but he didn't like it. So as soon as he started middle school it was just Joe.
Joe was three years older than me, so he, by default, hit all the milestones first. First into double digits, first into the teens, first to get driving lessons, first to go to camp, first to have his significant other round to meet our parents, first to receive a flurry of college acceptance letters, first choice.
Then there was me, with the seconds. Second to ride a bike, second to get an A on a paper, second to learn how to swim, second to colour and glue glitter on a clumsily folded piece of paper and present it was a mother's day card, second to visit my papi's work, second best.
We used to play this game, Joe and I. We regularly forced my mama into a corner (so to speak) and asked her who she loved the most. Naturally, she always answered that she loved us both equally, which was disappointing, to me at least. I look back now and wish I'd never asked at all.
I'd guess I was five years old when we played that game for the last time. She'd been drinking that night and my father was working late, as usual. We were sitting on the sofa watching television, my brother and I on either side of her. Then for no reason at all she pulled us in to a vice-grip embrace and told us she loved us. When she relaxed her arms and I sat up straight again my brother had turned his gaze back to the television and my mother was muttering nonsense under her breath, but she was smiling.
"Mama," I began in my most sugary sweet voice. She blinked a few times as though trying to bring my face in to focus.
"Yes darling?" She was slurring and Joe looked at her then to me with a warning glance which I ignored. I shouldn't have.
"Who do you love the most?" I asked, my voice shook a little despite having asked the same question countless times before. She giggled a little, which unnerved me.
"I love Joey the most of course, he's my first born," she miraculously managed not to slur as she answered. Joe didn't say anything as our mother - his mother - hugged him again tightly. Something flashed across his face for a moment though. Pride? Victory? It lingered for perhaps half a second and then it was gone, but I had seen it.
My mother passed out long before my father returned home from work. Joe had grown bored of her incessant, mumbling sleep talk and taken refuge in his room to read. I observed my mother as she snored loudly and a small trail of saliva crept down the corner of her mouth. I decided she would probably be mad if I dragged the king-size duvet downstairs from my parents' room, so I took the much smaller one from my own bed and draped it over her while she slept off the alcohol. Curling in to a fetal position I lay on the floor next to the sofa and waited.
The year Joey turned ten, his birthday was a big deal. Well, it was a big deal every year but that year he was going in to the double digits. His birthday fell in the middle of summer so naturally the weather conditions were perfect, clear blue sky, blazing sun, warm enough outside for bare feet. He'd invited his four close friends round and by 2pm they were all sat on and around plastic garden furniture shoveling food in to their mouths.
I stood at the back door, looking at all the lush greens and other vibrant colours that seemed to bring our rather mundane backyard to life. I was itching to be a part of it. I loved nature, in nature no one was second best.
I kicked my shoes off and began my peeling my socks off too but my mother noticed straight away.
"Uh-uh, no bare feet outside. You might cut them on glass or something,"
"But Mama, I'll just be in the yard. Why would there be glass there?" She didn't answer but sighed which I took to mean Don't say I didn't warn you.
I finished removing my sock and skipped down the stone steps and onto the lawn. I felt the cool, fresh grass between my toes, saw the brilliantly blue sky above me, heard birdsong above the buzz of conversation between my brother and his friends.
After ten minutes of examining all the different plants in our flower beds I decided I wanted my skipping rope. But after maybe three steps on the concrete patio I felt a prick on the sole of my foot, a prick became a jab and a jab became a gore. I fell to the ground, holding my bleeding foot as the small fragment of glass protruding glinted in the summer sun.
My mother had just placed a large chocolate cake on the table, which Joe and his friends surrounded, when she heard my cries. Joe also looked up, rolling his eyes when he saw me clutching my injured foot. My mother disappeared in to the house for a moment then came and knelt down beside me, I was still sobbing and frowned. She gently took my foot and pinched at the skin where the glass had sunk in with the tweezers. I bit my tongue, slowly turning my head up to look at my mother, who shook her head slightly.
"What are we going to do with you, Santana?" She asked, half to me, half to herself. I bowed my head and watched the blood from my foot stain her fingers, wishing that I knew the answer.
As I grew older I noticed certain things about my family, especially my mother. She had an extremely superficial perception of what beauty was, constantly investing in creams, ointments and expensive make-up as well as work-out tapes and dietary supplements. It didn't seem to bother her that I observed her behaviour almost obsessively, or perhaps she didn't notice. Either way, I quickly learned that in her world beauty meant having perfect skin and a twenty-six inch waist.
I'm not sure if I was mimicking my mother's behaviour or if I simply had a poor appetite, but I rarely finished what was put in front of me at meal times. This, coupled with extremely picky tastes, meant I grew very little and remained one of the shortest in my class for the duration of elementary school. The other kids rarely believed me when I told them Joe was my brother. Joe, the athletic hero loved by everyone. It didn't make sense for him to have a sibling like me; small, scrawny, quiet and unnoticed. He was supposed to walk with me to school every morning, but every morning he would run ahead as soon as we were out of sight of the house. I didn't really mind. I preferred walking alone over walking with him and his friends who would follow his example by snickering and calling names after me.
In first grade I was made to sit next to Jacob Ben Israel. His incessant chattering and touching didn't help my short temper, and it was only a matter of weeks before it flared up, resulting in a shiny bruise on his cheek. I sat on my own for the rest of the year, and though I certainly wasn't disliked by my peers, I wasn't noticed either. In second grade, however, my luck changed dramatically when it was decided I would be seated next to a pale, blonde-haired girl. Being as shy was I was it was weeks before we spoke to each other.
She approached me in the playground one day, her dirty-blonde hair held off her face in two tight plaits and a grass stain spoiling one knee of her light-grey leggings. She cast a tall shadow over the grass where I sat cross-legged making chains out of the flowers surrounding me. I looked up, but said nothing. For a moment it was silent and we just stared at each other. Then she sat down next to me and picked a flower, examining it closely as she spoke.
"You don't talk much," she said as she started her own chain.
I shrugged. "No one wants to talk to me."
"I do," she countered instantly. This caught me off guard and I searched her face for some tell-tale sign that she was making fun of me, but I found none. She looked up from her chain and flashed a small smile, then looked down again at the flowers in her lap. I didn't really smile much, but I smiled then. And even though she wasn't looking, I'm pretty sure she knew.
From then on we spent every recess making flower chains or playing hide-and-go-seek. I still didn't talk much, but that didn't seem to bother Quinn. She did a lot of talking and all I had to do was listen.
Quinn and I lived on opposite sides of a large park. Her house lay directly beyond the southern border. Mine was situated in Lima Heights Adjacent, towering at the top of the northern hill, overlooking it. In fact, if I squinted at a particular angle through the upstairs bathroom window I could actually make out the Fabrays' roof.
This proved to be an extreme nuisance until we turned eight, when my parents allowed me to wander freely, provided I let someone know I was going out and was back before dinner time. After that we were inseparable. We didn't go without arguments, but in each other we found an escape. She from her mother's apron strings, and I from Joey. I never really understood why she disliked the amount of attention her parents paid to her, and she never understood why I hated my brother, but I think it was better that way. At least it hurt less, not talking about it.
So for a few years I was happy as long as I wasn't home. I spent a lot of time at the Fabrays' house and while Quinn's parents were certainly wary of me, I was never made to feel unwelcome in their home. I spent every Friday night at Quinn's without fail, and often stayed until dinner time on the Saturday. We had a routine, and it remained undisturbed until the day we started high school.
I made sure to be at Quinn's early on the morning of our first day. I was nervous. I'd tried on at least six outfits and none of them had felt 'right'. So in the end I settled for a checked shirt and black jeans, with my hair swept off my face in a lose ponytail. Quinn, on the other hand, had gone all out and curled her hair, applied a full face of make-up and worn a brand new dress. I looked down, my eyes flicking back and forth between my scuffed sneakers and her pristine white flats.
"You look nice," she said, but I didn't agree. I looked boring. But I knew she was being sincere so I smiled and accepted the compliment anyway.
"You look-"
I went to say, "You look pretty," but the words caught in my throat and I opted instead for, "I like your hair."
She smiled again and took my arm. "Come on, let's go." I nodded and turned to open the door but Judy Fabray was suddenly in my way.
"You aren't going anywhere until I get some pictures!" A camera was brandished and I sighed inwardly. Quinn, however, was only too happy to pose and curtsey and it was a good twenty minutes before we finally left the house.
"What's wrong?" Quinn asked the moment the door was shut behind us.
"Just nervous," I mumbled. She squeezed my arm and we walked on. When we finally made it to school it seemed that all the other freshmen had already congregated in the courtyard. I looked around and saw various huddles of people I'd known since elementary school and others I had never seen before in my life.
My nerves kicked in again and I tried my best to avoid contact with anyone, but Quinn didn't falter for a second and walked straight up to a group of girls I recognized vaguely from ballet class, dragging me with her. Within minutes Quinn was chatting animatedly with the other girls while I looked at the ground and kicked at small stones.
After fifteen minutes Quinn nudged me and hissed in my ear. "You're not talking."
"Sorry." I looked up and turned to face the other girls who were now staring at me with mild interest.
"This is Santana, my best friend," Quinn said with her million watt smile. I opened my mouth to say hi, but at that moment a girl chose to march up to the group and introduce herself.
"Hello there, fellow freshmen! My name is Rachel Berry and I look forward to getting to know you all in the weeks to come." She extended her hand as she spoke but everyone simply stared. Then Quinn, who had turned a visible shade of purple side-stepped in front of her with her hands on her hips.
"Excuse me. You interrupted my friend." She placed great emphasis on the word 'friend' and I winced, Rachel looked as though she was in dire need of a friend of her own, but I also felt a great sense of pride. Quinn quickly told her in no uncertain terms to get lost and muttered, "freak," under her breath and Rachel walked away. The other girls giggled and I gave a small laugh, though it was more out a sense of duty than anything.
I watched Rachel as she went and though she walked a little dejectedly, her head remained high in the air and I felt a small stab of envy.
"Come on, time for class," Quinn said. I nodded mutely and followed the leader.