“Stella, it’s normal to react like this! You’re a 17 year old abuse victim for God’s sake!” my therapist explained as I make my escape out her dimly lit office. I hurry to my car. The midday sun shines on my reddish-brown hair. I light a cigarette and breathe it in. Relief. Turning on my car, I pull out of the parking lot and head home. It’s hard to see with tears running down my pale face, smearing my makeup everywhere.
I get into my house, passing my mom and hustle to my bedroom. Relief. I need it. I need my razor blade, my relief for times like this. I grab for it and huddle into my usual corner with my favorite stuffed dog, my security blanket and cut. I watch the blood ooze out of my skin. Oh the relief. It makes me want to cut more, so I do. One cut, then another, each cut deeper than the last.
Once satisfied, I look at my bloody arm and the blood that dripped on my favorite shorts from my arms. “Now this is a normal reaction.” I tell myself. “Stupid therapist. If she only knew.”
Now comes the fun part, I get to clean myself up. I get to take care of my wounds. It makes me feel needed, something I rarely feel. Grabbing a long-sleeved t-shirt and a fresh pair of shorts, I walk down the stairs managing not getting caught by my mother. I get into the bathroom and quietly shut the door. Reaching for the first aid kit I begin the process again. Warm water and a soft washcloth gently wiping the blood off, lightly dabbing with tissues to dry. Then I stop. Stop to examine and admire my work before I go any further. Impressive. These are deeper than last time. Scars over scars. I smile to myself. My bangs sweep over my eyes so I brush them aside for a better view. I’m proud of myself. These are my best work yet.
I hear my mother rustling around in the hallway, so I hurry and finish with the neosporin, gauze and a light wrap around my arm to seal it off, then sit down, lean my back against a wall, stretch my long legs on the floor and think. I think about all the times I’ve been hurt. All the times I’ve been lied to. All the bad things that have ever happened to me. Everyone that’s ever left me. They’ve brought me to this and I don’t think I will ever be able to quit. It’s not like I really want to anytime soon anyways.
As I change into my clean clothes and the tears dry, the high starts to fade and I’m brought back to reality. I won’t be able to wear short-sleeved shirts for a while again. It’s still summer. I can’t keep wearing long sleeves and hoodies and I don’t want to keep missing out on trips to the beach because of the fresh wounds on my arms. “What am I doing?” I ask myself. “How did I get here?” I already know the answers, but it feels good to ask again.Then It hits me, it really hits me when I realize, at that moment, that I really will never quit cutting. Even if I do there’s going to be another self-destructive vice to take its place. I’m on this cycle I will never get off.
Getting tired, I lay down and fall asleep there, on the bathroom floor. It’ll be better when I wake up. Everything’s going to be okay with my blade in hand, cigarettes, cheese, or whatever vice to ease my pain life throws at me.
“Don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me.” I whisper to myself, drifting off to sleep. I’m the only one I will ever have. Everyone has left me. I am alone.