I Must Be Emo I had the day off from work today for Memorial Day. My parents and I did what millions of Americans do to honor those who gave their lives in the name of freedom: we had ourselves a backyard barbeque. I set up the charcoal grill, some folding chairs, and a card table in the backyard. I covered the card table with a table cloth and laid out three place settings.

In past years, my Dad had manned the grill, but now that I am man of the house, my dad suggested that I do the cooking this year. Handing me his old apron, my Dad said, "I hereby pass on to you the apron of the manly man. Wear it as a soldier wears his uniform. Make me proud, son."

Then he and my mom sat down on the folding chairs I had arranged around our makeshift picnic table.

I put on the apron and fired up the grill. While waiting for the charcoal to get hot enough to cook on, I went into the house and brought out a pitcher of iced tea. I filled everybody's glasses and got back to the grill. I noticed my mom and dad doing quite a lot of whispering while I was putting the foil-covered potatos on the grill. I thought they were being a little rude, but I decided not to say anything about it. The potatos were going to take about an hour to cook, so I joined my mom and dad at the table to have some iced tea and chips and dip while we waited.

After an awkward silence, my dad says, "Son, you know, if there's anything troubling you, you can always tell us."

My mom chimes in with, "We care about you and don't want you to do anything to hurt yourself, Bernie."

"What are you two talking about?," I ask.

My dad says, "Your mom and I are not as clueless as you think, Bernie. We keep ourselves informed about what's going on with today's youth."

"We subscribe to Readers Digest," my mother adds.

I have no idea where this conversation is going, but it's starting to make me uncomfortable. "Just get to the point, dad."

"Bernie, your mom and I are concerned that you may be cutting."

"Cutting?," I ask. "Cutting what? I don't even go to school. I have a job, remember?"

"We're not talking about cutting school, Bernie, " my mother says. "We're talking about cutting yourself."

Now I'm really confused. "What are you talking about?" I ask again.

My dad says, "Bernie, put your hands out, palms up." I burst out laughing, this conversation was getting so silly.

I figure, why not? "Sure!," I say, and I hold my hands out.

Pointing to my wrists, my mom says, "I noticed that when you were pouring the iced tea."

I look where she's pointing and notice, for the first time, that my wrists have scratches across them. "What the heck is that?," I ask.

"That's what we'd like you to tell us, Bernie," my dad says.

"Bernie, why can't you just admit that you're a cutter? I know a cry for help when I see it," my mom says. "We can get you help. Just be honest with us"

"Mom, I'm not a cutter. I don't know how those scratches got there. You gotta beleive me."

My dad says, "You're not doing yourself any favors by keeping quiet about this. People cut themselves when they feel sad or upset. They do it as a way to cope with their sadness, but it's not healthy. Now that it's out in the open, you might as well talk to us about it, Bernie. Tell us what's troubling you."

"Nothing's out in the open, dad, and nothing's troubling me," I say. "I'm not a cutter."

"Oh, Bernie," my mother sighs.

We ate our steaks, baked potatos, and grilled vegetables in strained silence. Afterwards, my mom helped out with the dishes, my dad cleaned out the grill, and I put the table and chairs away. Heading back to their trailer, my dad says, "You haven't heard the last from us about the cutting. We're going to get you help."

What did he mean by that?, I wondered. Were they going to have me committed? I wished that I had a good explanation for how those scratches got there. Maybe then, they'd believe me.

I headed back into the house and sat down in front of my MacBook to write this post. As I was typing, I noticed my wrists getting irritated. And then I realized, the sharp edges on this stupid MacBook are slicing my wrists! This damn MacBook is going to get me put in a straight jacket if I can't convince my parents that it is the reason that there are scratches on my wrists.

I headed to the trailer with my MacBook to show them where the scratches were coming from. I made each of them feel the sharp edges, and showed them how I type so that they could see how I was getting scratched. They both ended up laughing with relief.

I was really disappointed that my parents didn't simply believe me to begin with, but I was even more disappointed that this MacBook is scratching my wrists. I'm seriously bummed.

Maybe I should cut myself to deal with the pain.
- Bernie  ¶ 6:15 PM