CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

1982 to 1983.

After the incident in the cooking class, Layne wants to know why I have such a low-key reaction to kitchen accidents, and I decide to tell him.

***

I’m required to complete an internship before graduation, so in August of my junior year, I land an internship in the Creative Design Department of Ledger Fashion Industries, also known as LFI.

Tom and I immediately get along, and Marjorie, the head of the department, is a kickass, take-no-shit woman who I admire.

My life hasn’t been perfect, but I’m fairly healthy, both emotionally and physically, and I feel good about my future.

The next month, three weeks before I turn twenty-two, my parents die in a plane crash when returning from a vacation in Spain.

We have a closed-casket funeral, and I never see them again or say goodbye. Without closure, I don’t know how to cope.

The few friends I do have don’t know how to be around me because they’re not used to dark, depressed Sam. Tom, Kari, and Marjorie become my second family, and they help me manage my grief.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, I break up with my boyfriend of two years, and he doesn’t take it well.

A few weeks later, I’m packing boxes at my parents’ house, and he shows up with two dozen red roses, pleading for me to take him back.

Things escalate quickly until we’re screaming at each other in the snow-covered lawn so loudly that I’m surprised no one calls the cops.

“I don’t want your goddamn flowers!” I shriek, tearing them apart.

He places his hands on mine to stop me, and the thorns dig into my palms. “Can’t you see I can’t survive without you? We’re meant for each other!”

I pull away from him, and two of the thorns scratch my arms. “We’re not! We’re not good for each other.” I tear the petals from their sharp vines. “This is codependency, not love, and I’m done with it!”

“But I love you!”

“Well, I don’t love you. Go home. Move on.” I throw the flowers on the ground. “And don’t fucking come around here again.”

He leaves, completely defeated. When his tail lights are out of sight, I look at the ground, then at my skin. Bleeding pricks cover my hands, and the two large gashes in my left arm hurt worse than any scratch I’ve ever had.

I kneel and dig my hands into the pristine snow. The cold burns my skin, but I compact the snow in my fists and rub it against my arm. The snow turns pink with my blood, and I go back inside, leaving the bloody snow and flowers to their fate.

But when I begin cleaning the numerous cuts, I realize that I’m not really feeling the pain the way I did when I was younger. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline, which I assume is from the fight, and it takes time for me to treat all the wounds.

At some point I realize that, despite the adrenaline, I feel calm, peaceful. I hadn’t felt that way at least in the past three months, maybe longer. When I finish bandaging myself, I lean against the bathroom wall, my eyes closed, and just concentrate on that feeling–the feeling of relief.

I’m not sure what caused it. I assume it’s the fact that I knew it was finally over with my ex, and I could move on with my life.

I’d gotten drunk a few times, smoked cigarettes with a friend behind the high school during my sophomore year, and smoked pot once in college when I was at a party with my ex. Nothing had felt like this. It feels like freedom.

It takes most of the afternoon for that feeling to taper, for me to come back down to reality. Once it does, I return to packing boxes, but it hurts to move my arm and hands. Instead of going home for the night and letting my wounds heal, I power through, and the feeling returns, but milder this time.

Shortly before the new year, I’m having a tough time. Finals were stressful, and I put the house on the market. I’m shaving my legs, and not paying attention, and I cut my shin with the razor.

It hurts, but there’s that feeling again. I realize that it might not be adrenaline this time. Maybe it’s dopamine.

I bandage my leg, and again, focus on the peacefulness, the quiet.

***

I’m okay for a few months, but midterms coincide with the six-month anniversary of my parents’ deaths, and I go to a very dark place. I start thinking maybe a small injury is my solution. Maybe that will bring back the peacefulness.

A loud argument consumes my mind because part of me thinks this is idiotic. Yet, another part thinks it’s worth it if it’ll make me feel better.

However, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m still in the dorms, so there’s no kitchen, but I have a paring knife that I use for cutting apples, so I decide to use that.

Obviously, I don’t want to be caught nor do I want any questions. Therefore, I decide to cut just above my ankle.

I can’t do it.

I’m holding the knife, all I have to do is drag it, and I can’t do it.

Instead, I glide the blade gently against my skin. It scrapes the skin, but not deep, and it doesn’t really hurt.

But there’s that feeling again.

I’m deeply confused. No blood, practically no pain, and yet, the calmness is back.

I feel like I’ve cracked the code. If all I have to do is scrape myself a little to feel better, that’s definitely something I can do.

This time, the high lasts an hour, not quite as long as before, but still good.

The next day, I try again, and I have a realization: The focus on the task is what’s sparking the rush. I’m in complete control; I decide when, how, where, and how deep to cut. When I have to focus that intensely, I can’t focus on anything else.

Not my parents’ death, not my grades, and not my twisted dating life.

But as nearly every addict can attest, the same dose doesn’t give the same relief. After a while, I have to scrape more. I try different tools, different areas of my body, and different amounts of pain. I even put ice on the area beforehand so I can scrape longer while minimizing the pain.

When I’m stressed and needing relief, the voices start. That’s what I call them, but they’re not always voices. Sometimes, it feels like tiny scratches under my skin, like small, caged creatures begging to be released. Sometimes it’s a constant shrieking that blocks out all of my other thoughts. Sometimes, it feels like my nerves are vibrating, itching to be quieted.

Still, I never cut anywhere visible. I have no wish for attention. No one knows.

After my internship ends, Tom hires me as a part-time employee, and I spend four days each week at LFI.

In June, I figure out that if I hurt myself enough that the pain continues after I’m done–say, if I cut or scrape my ankle enough that it hurts to walk the next two days–the feeling will stay with me intermittently the entire time.

It’s like my body is telling a story. “Remember the time when you messed up your ankle? Dude, that was so awesome!” The actual story is over, but I get to relive it with every step, and that’s almost as good.

But in August, I fuck up.

Maybe I wasn’t focused enough. Maybe I’d just been doing it too long. For whatever reason, I wasn’t getting the same rush.

So that night, I scraped down the plasma. Once or twice more, and I would have been bleeding for sure. And because I scraped so deep, I must have upset my nerves because the pain is more intense than ever.

The next day, I’m limping. I’m trying not to, wanting to be as subtle as possible, but I also don’t want to take painkillers, and so I limp.

And observant Tom notices.

He gestures for me to follow him into his office. “Something happen?” he asks.

I furrow my brow. “What? No. Everything’s good.”

“You didn’t fall, whack your shin against a coffee table, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s with the limp?”

I’d thought I was invincible, so I’d never come up with a lie to use if I got caught. His even stare disarms me, and I’m speechless.

“What limp?” I ask, like a complete idiot.

He doesn’t say anything.

“It’s nothing,” I say. He’s eliminated my instant lies: falls and clumsiness. I can’t think of another excuse.

“Nothing?” he says. “What if I drove you to the hospital for an x-ray? Would they agree?”

“I don’t need an x-ray.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He points at my ankle. “If a radiology tech asked you to roll up your pants so they can x-ray your ankle, they’d see that everything is fine?”

My heart pounds. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Tom.”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I love this job. I don’t want to be fired.”

He furrows his brow and softens his voice. “What? I’m not going to fire you.”

“You’re not?”

“Unless you’ve done something fireable that Marjorie hasn’t told me. You set the building on fire or purposely shred important documents?”

I barely smile. “No.”

“Then, don’t worry about it.” He gestures toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Let’s talk about this.”

Tom is my mentor and the person I trust most in the world. With the assurance that I won’t be fired, I show him my ankle, which, since yesterday, has developed a nasty, uneven scab.

He rubs his forehead, clearly trying to land on a reaction. “That looks really bad, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How long?”

“Eight or nine months.”

He leans back. “Tell me about it.”

So I do. I talk to him for almost an hour, and at the end, he says, “You need a therapist.”

“Can’t afford it.”

He stands and takes a small box from his bookshelf. “Doesn’t the college have psychologists and counselors available?”

“Oh… I’d never thought about it.”

“I know they had them when Kari attended BSU. I bet they still do.” He opens the box to reveal an assortment of first aid supplies. “Let me see your ankle.”

“I’m not opposed to therapy. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

“Good,” he says, bandaging me. “In the meantime, come talk to me.”

“No offense, Tom, but I don’t think you’d get it.”

“I was a bit of a mess when I was your age,” he says. “Believe it or not, that wasn’t so long ago. I remember.” He gently presses the bandage to adhere it to my skin. “Maybe you could start running with me.”

“I’m not much of a runner.”

“Might calm the voices.”

“Let me try therapy first.”

“Deal.”

***

“That’s the whole story?” Layne asks, sipping his tea.

I could lie. This is a great stopping point. I made some mistakes, was mentored, and healed. Tying a neat bow on this would make him feel better, and why should I deny him that?

“Sam?”

Except that I do not lie to Layne. “You really want the entire story?”

“Definitely.”

I boil water for another pot of tea. “Then, there’s something else you should know.”