Page 76 of Commit
“I cut myself last night. I used to do it before, but someone I cared about found out and made me promise I’d stop, so I did. I didn’t want her to stop loving me because I was weak or to ever look at me that way again. I never broke that promise, not when things were bad, not even when she died. But I broke it last night.”
“Do you know what triggered you?”
“Yes. Someone's been using my love against me, and last night they pushed me too far. I knew the person I cared about would get hurt. I could see it coming, but I couldn’t stop it. It all came to a head this morning.”
“Did you cut yourself this morning, too?”
“I had the blade in my hand, but instead of my usual spot, I held it to my wrist.”
The woman beside me gasps, and the counselor’s eyes bore into mine.
“I didn’t cut. I threw the blade across the room and ended up here.”
“That was brave,” someone says.
I look over and see a girl a few years younger than me, watching with interest. She holds up her arms, revealing crisis-cross scars.
“I hate myself when I cut, except for that moment when the blade breaks my skin and I see the first bead of blood,” she admits.
“It doesn’t last,” I tell her. “The highs become harder to chase because they end up further and further out of reach. I relapsed, but as I was cutting, something felt different. There was no pleasure. No calm. Whatever power it had over me isn’t there anymore. I think I just fell back on old habits because my life exploded yet again, and I’m just so fucking tired of it.”
“I don’t know how to stop. I feel myself panicking if I don’t have a blade nearby,” she whispers.
I look at the counselor, wondering if he wants to take over, but he just nods at me to continue. I share more than I intended. “I don’t know your story, but mine’s full of monsters.”
The man beside me shifts. I feel all eyes on me, but I ignore them and focus on the girl. “Looking back, I think part of me was punishing myself for drawing their attention. Now the monsters are dead and gone, and I refuse to let their ghosts haunt me. They stole my childhood. I’m not giving them my adulthood too.”
“But you still cut yourself,” she points out.
“Recovery isn’t easy. It’s not a straight path. There will always be bumps and dips in the road and unforgiving terrain for me to navigate. Sometimes I’ll stumble, and other times I’ll get turned around and go backward. Hell, aren’t all of us here a little lost? The trick is to keep going. All paths lead somewhere, right? If you stay still, if you change nothing, nothing will change. And one day, all these people here will gather and find an empty seat where you used to sit because you cut too deep.” I blow out a breath, knowing I’m rambling. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.
“I stumbled a little yesterday, so I took a different path, and it led me here.”
She’s quiet as she strokes her thumb over one of her scars. I can see her thinking, but she doesn’t say anything for the rest of the session.
When the session is over, the counselor pulls me aside and asks if I’m okay or if I need additional help. Assuming “additional help” means a stay in the psych ward, I tell him I’m fine now and head out.
When I get outside, I find the girl standing there looking scared but hopeful.
“Hi. Um… hey…” she stutters, biting on the sleeve of her top, which is now pulled down over her hands to hide her scars.
“Hey.”
“I’m Kate. I know I’m making this weird, but would you maybe want to get some ice cream or something? My mom won’t be here for another hour because she’s at work, and?—”
I smile and nod. “Ice cream sounds really good. I’m Starling, by the way. Oh crap, I didn’t bring my wallet. Rain check?”
“No worries, it’s on me. Please, I… Um, have some questions that I think only you might be able to answer.”
“I’m a mess, Kate, but I won’t say no to free ice cream.”
She beams a pretty smile at me. We walk in silence to the small ice cream shop around the corner, where she orders us both two scoops of chocolate fudge ice cream. We sit in a booth near the window and start eating. I can see she’s getting up the nerve to talk, so I wait.
“Did you tell your mom?”
I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth, alarm bells going off in my head. “My mom died when I was born.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” She shrinks in on herself.