Feb 2013
“That’s what love does to you, right?” she asked. “It makes you happy, and content, and numb.”
She pulled up her sleeve, exposing the clean, ruler-straight scars; the damage coming only from a dissembled, silver razor blade. She moved her fingers slowly up her forearm, feeling the slight rise in flesh, like a train moving over railroad ties, as the skin healed over, creating the scar.
“What do your parents say?” I asked her.
“They don’t know.” she said in a soft voice.
“And if they did?”
“I’d probably be sitting where I am now, talking to you.” she said. “and living in some sort of mental institute for crazy people, along with others who have these same so-called ‘addictions.’”
I made a note on my clipboard. The brown, wooded board serving as a curtain, shielding the notes I was making about the girl sitting across from me. The girl with auburn hair, wearing jeans, a pair of converse shoes, and a gray sweatshirt. From the outside, no one would even suspect her as one to mutilate the skin on her wrist with a sharp tool.
“Do any of your friends know?” I questioned.
“No.” she answered in that same soft voice.
I made another note.
“What would everyone think if they were to find out?” I asked her.
“They’d probably be confused. They wouldn’t like it. Then they‘d probably hold one of those interventions, then ship me to the institute for the crazies.” she explained.
“So then why do it?”
There was a long silence. Neither of us said anything. I waited for her answer, as she put together the words in her head before saying them out loud.
“I like it.” she whispered. “I like the way my skin swells up and leaves the smallest rise of a scar.” she paused again, collecting some more thoughts. “It takes away all the other pain I’m feeling, it makes me numb. That’s what love is supposed to do.”
“It’s not healthy.” I told her.
“Is the kind of love between two people healthy? When it’ll all eventually come to an end?”
For the first time since entering the small cubicle after coming into the therapy center, she’d shown emotion. The soft whisper she’d been using the whole time disappeared, rising to a higher volume as she argued my point of self harm and how it isn’t safe. I sensed a hint of anger as she looked me dead in the eye looking for an answer to the question she’d fired at me. She leaned back into the small comfortable chair across from me. She took a Kleenex out of the box and wiped her fresh tears that had began falling down her cheeks.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not depressed.” she paused. “I don’t want to **** myself and I don’t want to die.” She took another Kleenex from the box. “But I know this kind of love won’t ever come to an end.”
“Until you cut too deep.”
She pulled up her sleeve, exposing the clean, ruler-straight scars; the damage coming only from a dissembled, silver razor blade. She moved her fingers slowly up her forearm, feeling the slight rise in flesh, like a train moving over railroad ties, as the skin healed over, creating the scar.
“What do your parents say?” I asked her.
“They don’t know.” she said in a soft voice.
“And if they did?”
“I’d probably be sitting where I am now, talking to you.” she said. “and living in some sort of mental institute for crazy people, along with others who have these same so-called ‘addictions.’”
I made a note on my clipboard. The brown, wooded board serving as a curtain, shielding the notes I was making about the girl sitting across from me. The girl with auburn hair, wearing jeans, a pair of converse shoes, and a gray sweatshirt. From the outside, no one would even suspect her as one to mutilate the skin on her wrist with a sharp tool.
“Do any of your friends know?” I questioned.
“No.” she answered in that same soft voice.
I made another note.
“What would everyone think if they were to find out?” I asked her.
“They’d probably be confused. They wouldn’t like it. Then they‘d probably hold one of those interventions, then ship me to the institute for the crazies.” she explained.
“So then why do it?”
There was a long silence. Neither of us said anything. I waited for her answer, as she put together the words in her head before saying them out loud.
“I like it.” she whispered. “I like the way my skin swells up and leaves the smallest rise of a scar.” she paused again, collecting some more thoughts. “It takes away all the other pain I’m feeling, it makes me numb. That’s what love is supposed to do.”
“It’s not healthy.” I told her.
“Is the kind of love between two people healthy? When it’ll all eventually come to an end?”
For the first time since entering the small cubicle after coming into the therapy center, she’d shown emotion. The soft whisper she’d been using the whole time disappeared, rising to a higher volume as she argued my point of self harm and how it isn’t safe. I sensed a hint of anger as she looked me dead in the eye looking for an answer to the question she’d fired at me. She leaned back into the small comfortable chair across from me. She took a Kleenex out of the box and wiped her fresh tears that had began falling down her cheeks.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not depressed.” she paused. “I don’t want to **** myself and I don’t want to die.” She took another Kleenex from the box. “But I know this kind of love won’t ever come to an end.”
“Until you cut too deep.”
