This happened a while ago

I walk in the door, dragging my feet, with barely enough energy to lift my head and greet my parents.  They do that whole “I’ve missed you, nice to see you, how was your trip?” thing, and then, in turn, they lean in for the embrace.  At this point, I don’t feel like touching anybody.  I stand there, as usual, not returning the hugs or the kisses.  Standing awkwardly motionless in a moment of intense love and affection.  I don’t want anybody to touch me.  I pull out of our little “love-circle” as quickly as is appropriate, and migrate upstairs to my bedroom.

Finally, I can block out the world.  I can shut my door, sit in my bed, and take a moment to flush out all of the emotions that are stirring through me.  Am I affected by what happened to me? Maybe.  I’d rather not think about it.  I’d rather do nothing, feel nothing, be nothing, than have to go through the sorrow and anger and frustration all over again.  It made me into a scared little girl.

I get the urge to do it again.  I used to do it all of the time, and nobody noticed.  What would be different now?  Years ago, I was a nervous, hormonal, angst-filled, ugly teenager.  What’s so different about me now, that I can’t do it?  I’m still a teenager, although technically an adult.  I’m still shy and weak and ugly.  No hormones really involved here compared to the middle-school days.  I suppose all you need to have that desire is weakness, anger, loneliness, depression.  That has been the main theme throughout my whole life.  Depression.  When people ask me if I’m depressed, I will say no.  I will say no because it’s only when I’m alone that I’m really depressed.  The rest of the time, I put on my smile and fake my way through life.  I’m coasting through life right now.

I’ve convinced myself that last time I did it, it didn’t really count.  It felt like the only person I cared about in the world had died.  He almost had.  And it was my fault.  So I deserved to be punished.  And I needed a distraction from that pain.  I take out my “kit” as I affectionately call it.  All my tough times have eventually involved something from my kit.  It’s the only thing that knows everything about me.  I look inside of it.  What should I do tonight? I see my lighter, and think about burning.  I don’t feel like that tonight, I might do it later to have pain that takes longer to fade away.  A constant throbbing is always good.  A consistent reminder of my stupidity, my pain.  A reminder that I’m presenting a fake self to the world.  What else do I have? I rummage through my kit again and find my pokey stick.  There’s supposed to be another side with a pencil attached, to assist in drawing a perfect circle, but I’ve taken off the useless part.  My 9^th grade geometry set has served me very well.  A sharp metal object that I can stab myself with and create holes that are barely visible once they stop bleeding, but hurt like bruises for a week or so.  No, I don’t think I want to stab tonight.  This deserves something that will leave a mark.  Something to remind me of my worthlessness.

I don’t know if it was my mom or the cleaning lady she hired to come in every couple of weeks, but somebody took the most treasured objects out of my room.  Before I ever had a kit, all I needed were my blades.  We got exacto-knives in art class in grade 10, and replacement blades to go with them.  I used to have a set of 3 blades.  Each of them very sharp, and causing a satisfying sting as they sunk into my skin.  But somebody noticed the scars on my wrist.  And in the silent way my family does business, confiscated my favourite tools without my knowledge or any confrontation whatsoever.  I crave them now more than ever.  I decide to go on a hunt for them.

I look downstairs in all of the kitchen drawers, for any sign of any exacto-knife.  I find one, but it looks dirty and complicated, to the point of being unfriendly.  I miss my simple contraption.  I’ve looked for it before, but never with the urgency I have now.  The more I think about it, the more real my urgency becomes. I need to cut.  I need the pain right now.  Anything to stop me thinking about what happened this weekend.  Anything.  My mind is frantic and my body is restless.  I want to scream, but I keep a neutral face like always.

Finally, in the last place I thought it would be, I find it.  That’s always the case, isn’t it?  Who would’ve thought I’d find it in the unused desk upstairs; calling to me, waiting for me, wanting to satisfy my hunger.  I remove the blade from the knife with a swiftness that only experience can give someone.  This is the first time I have felt legitimate joy for a long time.  I’ve reunited with my blade.  I feel like I should take a picture, post an encrypted status on my facebook to tell the world without letting them know (something like “nothing beats getting reunited with an old friend”).  I’ll save that for later.

Back in my bedroom now, waiting until my parents go to sleep.  Making small incisions that will heal overnight, just so I can get used to my blade again.  Biding my time before things actually get serious.

Their lights go out, and I allow myself to think about what happened.  I relive the moment: His dirty old hand rubbing my leg, his jacket covering my lap so nobody would know.  The road making me sick as always, the wireless network on the bus being slow.  Talking to my boyfriend on facebook while it was happening.  I remember not saying anything, being too shocked to move.  The first time I noticed something wasn’t right, I pretended to fall back asleep again.  Surely it was just my sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on me.  But I wake up and still feel his hand there.  Now, with more urgency.  My body is dripping in sweat, drops trickle from my forehead into my eyes.  They leak down to my lips, and I can taste the faint saltiness of each addition.  It’s a disgusting, uncomfortable humidity.  I feel dirty and used.  For a moment, I gather my strength and try to move away, but my body fails me. I am stuck. I am paralyzed.  Maybe I can’t move because I deserve this, maybe I am an object, maybe I should be an object.  At least someone is enjoying me. I can’t even believe I’m conflicted in this moment, everything about this is wrong. I want to cry but I can’t breathe.  Slowly, his hand moves higher on my leg.  His fingers move as if he’s composing a fast-paced concerto.  Literally fluttering and sliding, feeling his way through a complicated piece.  He even has the whole bus as an audience.  And me, the instrument. The stationary, beautiful, sweaty, instrument. His fingers find my skin and my stomach automatically recoils from the strange invading fingertips. Finally he reaches as far as he can, violating me in ways I didn’t think I would ever experience.  There’s no music anymore, just the constricting silence that comes with the territory.  Typical me, unable to say or do anything. Just like when I was little.

I always thought I was going to be the girl who said something.  That no matter how weak I got, I would always, ALWAYS, have the strength to protect myself from being used like that.  I would stand up for myself, I would never just let it happen.  I never understood how something like that could even take place, aside from being overpowered physically. But it wasn’t him I was fighting off, it was just me.  All I had to do was switch seats, say stop, take his jacket off of me, go to the bus driver, spill my drink on him, slap him, push him off, say anything.  One word.  But nothing came out.  All I had were a series of sweat-tinged tears that I couldn’t even wipe away in my paralyzed state.

And now the tears fill my eyes again when I think about it.  How weak I was, how pathetic I was, how much it hurts even now, and how much I deserved so much more than that.  I don’t stop to think if it’s possible to deserve worse, I just know.  And with that, I cut for real this time.  I push hard on the blade, until blood surrounds it in a crimson pool.  Then I cut in the same spot again, and I can see more of what lies underneath my skin.  I cut until the blood drips down my arm and then struggle to soak it up with a tissue before it reaches my sheets.  I start on a different area, and again somewhere else.  I don’t stop until my hands are shaking and I become increasingly nervous that my parents will wake up with my heavy breathing.

This is me at my weakest moment; feeling so intensely sad that I can’t breathe, crying without crying out, cutting until gravity draws my blood towards the earth.  And the next morning, I wake up.  Go through the motions of life.  Pretending to feel real emotions.  Pretending to love my boyfriend, to be attracted to him, to like it when he touches me.  I couldn’t stand it when he touched me after that moment.  I would hold my breath and try not to cry.  He would take the sharp intake of breathe as enjoyment, and keep going.  It was painful. But at least someone was enjoying me.

I don’t usually cut that deep.  I can still see the scars from that night, as can anybody who bothers to look. But even if they get that far, nobody asks about it. Not like I would talk about it anyways.