CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

November 24, 1983.

I pour Layne a fresh cup of tea before continuing the story of my addiction.

***

I do start seeing a therapist at the college, and it does help. I talk to Tom when I get cravings, and that helps too.

I don’t completely stop, but instead of cutting or engaging in other types of harm a few times a week, it’s down to a couple of times per month.

Progress.

But I’m also dating a woman who is obsessed with drama.

She comes by it naturally; her family is completely insane, and I don’t think she knows another way to act.

On Thanksgiving, I’m cooking. Kari and the kids are going to eat with Kari’s family, but her parents and Tom hate each other so much that it’s best if Tom skips dinner. That was the last Thanksgiving Kari attended with her family.

Anyway, I’m cooking Thanksgiving morning, and my psycho girlfriend shows up at my apartment upset about something I don’t even remember. We argue for almost two hours, and she even breaks a few plates. I end it with her, and she storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

I go down a rabbit hole of misery, thinking about all the failed relationships I’ve had over the years. The more I remember, the louder the voices become. I know I don’t have time to be methodical; I just need something quick and easy.

If I were thinking more clearly, I would just run my wrist under the hot water. It still takes focus to not do real damage, and it sets my nerves on fire to help them quiet.

But, of course, I’m not thinking that clearly.

I’ve cooked a small turkey for Tom and me, thinking we’ll both have leftovers. When I set it on the table, the carving knife catches my eye, and something in my brain just snaps.

All of my rules about not bleeding, only hurting places that can be covered, and being safe… All of those rules evaporate, and I make a terrible mistake.

I pick up the carving knife and in one quick cut, slice my arm horizontally, just a couple of inches below my wrist.

Not using my usual caution, I press down too hard.

And it bleeds.

A lot.

I wrap it in a bandage, which is immediately soaked with blood. I apply more pressure, but nothing helps.

To make matters worse, I’m so panicked about getting it to stop, not to mention getting caught, that I don’t even get the rush that I usually do.

Basically, all of this is for nothing.

When I hear Tom knock, I secure a bandage as tightly as possible and pull down my sleeve.

I open the door and plaster a smile. “Hey, Tom. Glad you could make it.”

“It’s good to be here,” he says, stepping inside. “Something smells amazing.”

I can’t even think of a response because I can feel the blood drenching my bandage and staining my sleeve. Maybe he senses it because he looks at the carving knife and then at my sleeve.

“Show me,” he says.

I walk into the bathroom, and he follows me. “I didn’t mean for it to be this bad.” I can barely pull up my sleeve, and when the soaked bandage moves, blood pours from the gash.

“Shit!” Tom says, taking off his belt. “You’re going to need stitches.” He wraps my forearm in my hand towel and ties his belt just above the wound. “Duct tape?”

We return to the kitchen, and he haphazardly wraps the tape around the towel. He quickly turns off the oven and stove and grabs my keys. “Get in the car. I’m driving you to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital, Tom,” I say, holding his belt.

“Too bad. Getting stitches is better than severe blood loss or losing your damn arm.”

Hard to argue with that.

Usually a careful driver, Tom barely brakes the entire drive, and we arrive at the ER nine minutes later.

“What do I tell them when they ask what happened?” I whisper when we walk through the door.

“You need to tell them the truth, Sam.”

My heart pounds. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“You have to.”

When the hospital staff see me, they immediately take me back to a room; Tom begins the paperwork on my behalf.

“Are you a relative?” someone asks him.

“He’s my next of kin,” I tell them, and no one asks again.

A doctor removes the belt and cuts the hand towel off of my arm. Since I left home, the bleeding has slowed, but not stopped, and she works quickly.

“The good news,” she says, “is that you didn’t do enough damage that we need to repair any veins or arteries. The bad news is that this is going to take quite a few stitches, so we may be here for a while.”

“That’s fine,” I say, watching her fingers.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

I literally can’t. The words won’t come out. I look at Tom.

“She cut herself on purpose.”

The doctor seems unfazed. “You do that a lot?”

“Not like this,” I say.

“What does that mean?”

“Not this bad.”

“Yeah,” she says, “that happens. You think it’s only going to be once, only going to be a little, and then… It only takes one time, not unlike heroin or coke.”

Although I’m relieved I’m not being chastised, I’m not sure this reaction is better.

“Kendra!” the doctor calls. “Can you ask Dr. Leevs to join us, please?” She doesn’t ask me any more questions; she just focuses on the stitches.

A few minutes later, a woman with tawny skin and long, blond curls joins us. “What’s going on in here?” she asks with a chipper voice.

The doctor answers for me. “This young woman came in with a cut that’s going to require fourteen stitches.

“Wow,” Dr. Leevs says, “imagine if it had been a vertical cut. Yeesh.”

I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a joke, but at least she doesn’t seem as tired as her coworker.

“You cut yourself a lot?” she asks.

She asks a lot of questions, and I answer all of them because she seems to actually care about my answers. In fact, she barely writes anything down.

“If your friend hadn’t come over, you might have died. How do you feel about that?”

“I–I don’t know.” She waits while I think about it. “I’m not ready to die.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says, as if I just told her that I got a puppy or decided to exercise more.

I chortle. “I guess it is.”

“But you’re still going to do this, huh?” she asks, pointing at my newly-sutured arm.

“Probably.”

“I’d like to admit you to the psych ward.”

“No fucking way.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That was quick. Why not?”

“I’m not a nut job.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Psychiatric facilities are for the true crazies.”

“Sometimes,” she says. “Most of the time, we use them for cases like this. People who need some acute mental health care. That’s you, kid.”

“No one’s going to fucking sterilize me while I’m in there?”

“It’s the eighties now,” she says with a twisted smile. “Psychologists finally have ethics.”

“Comforting.”

“Look,” she says, “I can hold you for seventy-two hours regardless. You’re a risk to yourself; that’s enough. I’m thinking you probably need four to six days. They’ll get you some meds, coping skills, a little therapy, and you can go right back to studying for finals.”

I look at Tom. “This is why I didn’t want to come to the damn hospital.”

“Well,” Dr. Leevs says, “based on that bloody towel they took away, I suspect you would have passed out from blood loss and eventually died. That probably would have sucked worse than some healing medication and therapy, don’t you think?”

“Fuck.” I sigh. “My next class is Tuesday afternoon. If I agree to this, you think you can discharge me by Tuesday morning?”

She looks up at the ceiling and counts. “Would you start taking meds tonight?”

I groan. “I’m not a big fan of meds.”

“Humor me.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

“Then, yeah, I think we can probably get you out of here in time for class. No missed school.”

“What happens now?”

“You hang here, and I’ll set up your transfer. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

When she leaves, Tom sits beside my bed. “This sucks, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” I say with a cracking voice.

“It’s the right decision.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“I know, but they’re right, Sam. You could’ve died today.”

“I’m usually more careful.”

“I know, but she’s right. It only takes one time.”

Tears come to my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. “I still have a job?”

“Of course, you still have a job. What kind of heartless bastard would fire you for this? You know I”m not that guy.”

I sniff. “I know,” I say with a half-smile. “You’re my next of kin.”

***

“How was the psych ward?” Layne asks, completely engrossed in my story.

“I hated every minute of it. I felt suffocated the entire time.”

“That sucks.”

“But they did give me a lot of help and enough therapy that I realized I was only attracted to uber-damaged and dramatic people.”

“Gee, thanks,” Layne says, winking.

“Not anymore,” I say. “I raised my standards.”

He chuckles.

“And, perhaps most importantly, the therapist recognized my self-harm for what it was: an addiction. Dopamine is my drug of choice, so to speak. Reframing it that way has made me able to avoid harming since then. Seven years and counting.”

“So, when you cut yourself in the cooking class, it activated that rush again?”

“Obviously, it wasn’t on purpose this time, but yeah, same rush. That’s also what happened at Thanksgiving when your dad accidentally cut me.”

“Fucking Thanksgivings.”

I laugh. “Fucking Thanksgivings.”

He pulls me closer to him on the couch and wraps me in a tight hug. “Thank you for telling me, Sam. I feel truly honored.”

“Are you going to tell me how much money you have now?”

“You already know,” he says. “I’m a two zillionaire.”

I nuzzle him. “I’m so glad you finally confirmed it.”

“Seemed like time,” he says and kisses my forehead.

“We’re okay?” I ask, looking into his eyes.

“We’re perfect, baby.” His lips graze mine. “Absolutely perfect.”