Artist Statement:
In this piece, I chose to share one of my deepest, darkest secrets in the hopes of coming to terms with all that has happened and to finally move on. This event is something that I will always regret, but in a way it has made me realize who I am and who I do not want to be. High school was a hard time, like it can be for some. I was in a terrible place, caught up in all the "emo" fads, hating myself for no good reason at all. I yearned for pain, if only to forget my shame and pretend to be authentic. On top of that, I clung to a poisonous relationship, which continued to pull me further and further into despair. But the journey through my own made-up hell has taught me quite a bit about human nature and our capacity to self-destruct. I want people to read this and learn that there are ways to overcome feelings of unworthiness and self-loathing, as long as you have the courage to admit that they are false and to do something about it.
We are here, we are alive, and life is beautiful. That is something we must never forget.
Is this it? No, that's a bobby pin, not a regular pin.
I rifle through the vials of makeup and powders, being as quiet as I possibly can. With the
door closed, I doubt that anyone else can hear me, but it's better not to take any chances. This
would be an embarrassing thing to explain. My forehead creases in frustration as I silently curse
my sister for her messiness. All of this crap is hers, thrown haphazardly into a plastic bin. I never
had to use any of it until now. Finally, my thin fingers close around the soft pearl.
Eureka.
I stare at the thing, considering. It's clean and innocent. Normally it's used to pop zits, at
least in my house; today it would be serving a different purpose. My throat can't seem to swallow
as I weigh my options. I could walk out right now, pretend nothing happened, get on with life in
feigned bliss. Or I could just do it, to prove that I'm not such a wimp. I'm not, am I?
I'm not.
A trembling hand takes the pin to the inside of my left wrist, exposed and so pale. I can
almost see my pulse jumping beneath those blue veins. But my nerve fails me, and I lower my
hand once more. Facing the mirror, my eyes inspect every inch of my body, seeking some other
answer. I try to think back to what Tanya said, just a couple days ago.
Wrist, elbow, ankle... waist.
I lift my black t-shirt up to see the side of my belly clearly in the mirror. Such smooth,
unbroken skin. That had to change. My hand aligns the pin on the skin just under my rib cage. I
gently poke myself in order to get an idea of what I'm about to do. I can't help but wince, though
it doesn't hurt much.
Here goes nothin'.
I draw the instrument clear through the skin, leaving a two-inch long fissure. In seconds,
it becomes pink, then red. My cheeks feel hot, turning the same color. I realize that I had held my
breath. The pin gets a quick splash of water before being thrown frantically back into the makeup
box, clean as it had been before. Dirty hands grasp the edge of the sink as I lean forward,
examining the watery eyes looking back. These do not belong to me. They are wild, scared.
Possibly deranged.
The very first thing I do is hop on the computer, bubbling with adrenaline. I check instant
messenger to see if she's on, which she always is. She pings me, something mundane like "Hi,"
and "How are you?" I type out an answer as quickly as I can with trembling fingers, retelling my
special trip to the bathroom with much intent. She takes a while to respond.
tanyasaurus [10:34:06] Why did you do that?
I think of a pitiful answer.
rachelriot [10:34:36] I don't know. I guess I just couldn't help it.
Tears come on cue. I don't let them spill, just bubble under the surface, thoroughly
convinced that I'm upset.
tanyasaurus [10:35:13] Rachel, don't be like me. Please. :( What are you
upset over?
That's a good question. I ponder over that, cycling through my repertoire for something
that would best explain. Tanya has every reason to cut herself: teenage obesity, history of
depression, missing father, addicted mother. What did I have?
rachelriot [10:36:21] Everything.
Vague answers beg more questions, but Tanya doesn't push it, thankfully. She knows
how it feels to be swept away by the black tidal wave that is life. Such fits of despair often bring
her to a state of weakness, where she believes that hurting herself is the only way to escape. I am
her biggest confidante, and normally the one to keep her from drowning. But I am also the one
she comes to when it's too late, when the razor wins. It happens so often, nearly every night.
tanyasaurus [10:36:48] Next time you feel that way, please talk to me
first. I'm here for you, okay?
Oh, how the roles have switched. Doesn't she know what she's done? Time after time I have cried for her, begged her to stop. Every word she says is poison, attaching to my heart like a leech. Perhaps if I bleed for her, she will know my pain, just as I have lived with hers. In a way, it might be comforting, to know that someone understands at an intimate level.
rachelriot [10:37:02] Okay.
We don't dwell on the subject for long.
* * * * * *
I'm not hungry. My sandwich sits before me on its plastic Ziploc bag, warm and unappetizing. The cafeteria is buzzing in the backdrop of our conversation. My friends are all around me, smiling, laughing, joking. Even Tanya, who is normally so passive. She's across the table from me, not eating much either. Her bulbous arms are crossed, but I can still see the assorted wrist bands and bracelets she has on, all extremely obnoxious and colorful. They serve to cover her scars.
Her badges of dishonor.
I don't need wrist bands to hide behind. My wrists are clean, though aching. My whole
body craves pain. It's a sensation I'm getting used to.
I reach down to deliberately scratch at my ankle, lifting up my pant leg to reveal another
thin, red line. It's deeper, but not deep enough. I glance around to see if anyone notices, hopeful
that someone might. But they are all immersed in their silly games. Tanya's eyes are elsewhere,
looking at anything but me. Disgruntled, I sit back up and very forcefully pack my things. Some
ask where I'm going, but I just shrug and mumble something about the bathroom. As I turn to
leave, I give her one more pleading look, only to find her purposefully engrossed in her flip
phone.
My chest constricts as I burst into the room, which is full of giggling, gossipy girls
checking their makeup.
I can't do this here.
But if I don't do something, I'll collapse right on the cracked linoleum. I peal into the
nearest stall and slam it shut, waiting. Nails race down the length of my arms, cutting into me but
not near as well as a pin would, or a razor. The bite brings the situation into sharper focus. I start
to feel foolish, perched here on the toilet.
A bell rings shrilly outside, vibrating off the walls. The bathroom becomes empty once
again as the flock moves out. I step out of my shell very cautiously, making sure there is no one
else in a stall. I am utterly alone. It feels so good that I want to cry, but the tears won't come.
Instead, I go over to one of the rusty sinks and wash my hands in the cold water, pretending it's
tears. My eyes look up into that chipped, dirty mirror and stare long and hard at the girl looking
back. Her arms are raw, her face is flushed. She's a stranger, deranged. And in her eyes is
something unsettling that wasn't there before.
* * * * * *
School is the same. My friends are all the same. It's just me that's changed. A full year has passed since I last cut myself. I wouldn't say it's an exact anniversary, but it feels good to think of it that way. No more shaking. No more pain. Well, there might still be some pain.
Tanya changed too, I realize. I keep forgetting that. Her hair is no longer three different
colors. Her eyes aren't rimmed by stark black lines. And she bears the scars on her arms with
pride, for all to see. She's not so much proud of what she's done, just of her path away from it.
Once Tanya found Jesus, it was all over. I don't feel such relief. I'd had Jesus all along, but it
didn't keep me from sinning. I continue to feel tainted and unclean even without the pin in my
skin.
That's right, I never went past that goddamned pin. Why am I so ashamed of that?
Tanya's the true victim; she molested her body with a razor more times than I could count for
reasons beyond her control. I was and am a fraud. The only thing wrong with me was that I had
wanted to be the victim. Yet I never truly played the part. The razor and I never met.
It's over.
I tell myself that every time I go into that bathroom, every time I breathe. But it's so hard
to look Tanya in the eye and not remember everything that has transpired between us. We're
bound by blood. The more we draw away from each other, the more I am aware of that fact. I
talk to her in passing and sit with her at lunch, and never a word is said about what happened, but
it's there. It sits right between us, poking me with a fucking pin.
I understand why she's backed off. I am revolting to her, the mirror image of her failure. I
am the Ghost of Cutting Past. She continues to move forward and take her life back while I cling
on for dear life, waiting for the foul truth to be acknowledged once and for all. She was the
reason for my scars, a gateway to the underworld, but that was not her fault. Never her fault.
It's mine.
My fingers curl around my naked wrist, feeling for the steady heartbeat within. It
signifies life, life that I had once thought of throwing away. I sit here very often, outside in the
warm sun, surrounded by fences and the happy screams of children. They all make me remember
what I would have missed, had I gone through with it. Tanya used to talk the same way, back in
the dark ages. I thank God she hadn't succeeded either, for I would have been right behind her.
And I don't know why that is. Even after a year, I don't have an excuse. I wanted what she had,
which was nothing, and who would ever say they wanted nothing? I needed a reason to be
unhappy and suicidal because cutting didn't feel authentic enough. But sitting here, underneath a
cloudless sky, I realize that I never needed an excuse to be broken. I just was.
And still am.
Tanya had given me the idea, but it was I who acted. And I think that what she had
released was there all along, hiding in the deep recesses of my heart. She was not my creator, but
my sponsor. How eager I was to give in to the darkness, to sell my soul!
Will it ever get better, I wonder? Perhaps I need help, a way to calm the storm that accumulates from time to time, never at peace. My friendship with Tanya continues to crumble before my eyes, so I know there is no hope of seeking her out ever again. It's for her own good, really. We are strangers now, brought together once by misfortune. She'll become a great person one day, who will rub those scars absentmindedly and remember how far she's come. I gaze at mine in this light, surrounded and enveloped by peace, and wonder if I might do the same. In two short years, I have suffered, but I have grown. Everyone seems to take notice of that now. They don't ask questions or intrude; they just accept it.
Maybe it's about time I did, too.
I go back inside through the sliding door and hurry up the stairs, the same route as before.
But instead of hurting myself, and consequentially hurting others, I go to my sister's bin and pick
the devil up by its beautiful pearl. And then I throw the goddamned thing down the drain.
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