I think I was just calm. It was out my system. Whatever I was feeling before, it was gone.
The doctor checked me out. It was just me and him in this wee room. The hospital was this tiny wee place, because Millport’s tiny, fuck all happens there. It was this calm white place that smelled of a hospital.
The doctor asked me why I did it, while he stitched me up.
I felt embarrassed. I said, ‘I don’t know, I’ve just got … I’ve just got problems.’
He laughed. He said, ‘Problems? What age are you?’
I said, ‘15.’
He said, ‘15, haha. Wait until you get to my age. You have a wife, mortgage, children. Then you will have problems.’
Now, you might think that’s insensitive. It’s maybe something a doctor would get sued for these days. But it actually helped. The way he just laughed it off as he was stitching me up. It was his accent as well, maybe an Indian accent: ‘Then you vill have problems.’ It was like he’d been through a lot more than me to get to where he was, and if he could do it, I could do it. Or something.
I was told to stay there overnight, which I was happy to do. I woke up the next day in the hospital bed. It was a bright morning, with sunshine pouring through the windows. I was told that my dad would be coming from Glasgow to get me, and I’d be going home that day, so I was just thinking about what I’d say to him and my mum when I saw them. I felt relaxed, though.
Eventually, people started turning up. My mates from Glasgow turned up, and they were smiling and calling me a mad bastard. I said sorry for everything, and they told me not to worry about it. Then they went away and some more people turned up later. That went on for a while. I liked it. It was embarrassing, though, like I felt the need to slash my wrist because I’m special and I’m deserving of special attention. But I did like it. If you’re feeling down, I definitely recommend it. No, I’m joking.
My dad and brother turned up, and they were shaking their head, asking what I did a stupid thing like that for. I told them I got drunk and I didnae really know why I did it, I just felt down. We drove back and didnae talk about it, we just talked about other stuff like it hadn’t happened. When I got home, my mum was the same way as my dad and brother. The conversation about it must have lasted no more than a minute. My mum and dad weren’t into big conversations about feelings, whereas I’m the type of cunt that can go on about them a bit too much. As you’ve maybe noticed.
I was taken to a counsellor, a one-off meeting where I said I wouldn’t do it again, and the counsellor said okay then, and away I went.
As for the lassie from Greenock, I met up with her, in Glasgow. We hung about for a day, just fannying about, chatting. I don’t even think I got off with her, it was all quite friendly. Then we didn’t meet up again. I can’t remember if we decided we were just pals, or if we just didn’t bother getting back in touch. Either way, I was fine with it. I had a pretty easy-osey attitude about it all, considering I’d slashed my wrist a month or two beforehand.
Fucking Up School
About halfway through fifth year in school I decided to move from Hillpark Secondary to Shawlands Academy. It was right in the middle of me doing my Highers, and because of that I ended up failing them. Failed the lot of them.
Now, why would I go and do a thing like that? Why would I move school and risk failing my Highers? Was I being battered in Hillpark or something?
No. It was because I was loved up with this lassie from Shawlands Academy, and I wanted to be with her all the time.
This is like the third time I’d fucked things up because of a lassie. This is the final part of the trilogy. First the drinking, then the wrist, then this. It wasn’t their fault, obviously, and I would have fucked things up anyway. In fact, this lassie was only part of the reason I moved school.
It was mostly because the people at Shawlands Academy had better clothes.
I’m not joking.
Remember I said that I was a bit of a tramp when I started secondary and that I was mostly interested in doing well and proving myself. Well, it was kind of the opposite by fifth year.
Me and my mates were right into all the designer gear. We were all from council estates, but we’d save up our monthly £30 family allowance and blow it on one John Richmond Destroy T-shirt or a Junior Gaultier top or something else that made us look a bit better than we were. We’d go to the under-18s like Fury Murray’s and the Tunnel and Tin Pan Alley and rub shoulders with all these other youngsters from better areas, dripping with money, these 15-year-olds with posh accents and £500 John Richmond jackets. We couldn’t keep up, but we did our best to look the part. We’d also do our best to sound the part. If a lassie asked me where I was from, I wouldn’t say I was from Carnwadric. I’d say I was from Thornliebank. Things like that.
I started noticing that a lot of these trendy folk went to Shawlands Academy or St Ninians, whereas none of them went to Hillpark. All my mates were Catholics, so they were at St Ninians, making me about the trendiest cunt in Hillpark at the time. I’d sometimes wear some of my gear into school, almost to show off, to make up for feeling like a tramp back when I started. Some folk would have imitations of the designer gear I had, like I’d have Junior Gaultier and they’d have Benzini Junior, and they’d slag me off for having what they believed to be a rip-off. And I’d be like, ‘Oh my God, you just don’t have a fucking clue, man.’ Really making up for my trampy period, really enjoying my superiority.
Anyway, this lassie.
I met her during the summer holidays before fifth year, and we really liked each other. She was into all the gear, she came from a better area with a better house, and she had a posher voice. Plus she went to Shawlands Academy. I felt like I’d pure moved up in the world.
When I started back at Hillpark and I was seeing less of her, I missed her. We’d meet up and she’d tell me what she’d been up to in school. The more I thought about her school, the more it felt like a better scene. It just felt like where I belonged. Fuck Hillpark, man. I’m out of here.
So I managed to move school about halfway through. Fuck knows how I convinced my mum and dad to let me and what my reasons were. I think I just said I was dead unhappy, and they shrugged and made the phone calls.
I met all these new folk, folk that I’d seen in the clubs. It was all fresh and exciting. People were wondering who this new guy was, I felt all interesting. The teachers didn’t seem to take a liking to me, though. I think they thought I’d be a problem, having to get me up to speed with their class. And they were right.
I couldn’t catch up with what they’d been doing. I felt myself fucking it up, and I started to just let it happen.
Me and that lassie drifted apart, until we broke up. We more than broke up. I went to speak to her one day and she said, ‘I’m not talking to you. I know what you said about me.’ I didn’t know what she was on about, and I still don’t.
I started losing interest in all the fancy clothes. I just started wearing plain gear – denims, a band T-shirt, a denim jacket. It felt better.
Then I did my exams, fucking clueless. And during summer I got the results through for the four Highers that I’d taken. Failed the lot.
What a silly boy.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do.
Cutting Myself Up
I maybe should have spoken to that counsellor more, that one from when I slashed my wrist, because I started cutting myself up. I’d get a wee bit of glass, or I’d fold an empty can of lager in half so that it was pointy at the sides, and I’d cut up my forearm. Nothing too deep, but I’d cut it enough to hurt and make a mess.
I really can’t say why I did it, exactly. It was a mix of things. I had these feelings