Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred

by Melody Carlson

  I don't say anything.

  "Have you been cutting, Ruth?"

  "I want to go home," I say. "I can't stand this place. 1 can't stand Alexi."

  "Well, at least you're being somewhat honest now, Ruth. That's progress. But you still need to answer my question. Have you been cutting?"

  "A little."

  "Show me your arms."

  I feel a mixture of shame and anger as I push up my sleeves. But there's another part of me that doesn't even care.

  She examines my newest cuts. "What are you using to cut with?"

  "Razor blade."

  "Did you bring it with you?"

  I nod.

  "This means Juanita will have to go through all your things now."

  I sort of remember this from one of the forms I signed. It was a trust agreement. I had broken it, which gives them the right to do random searches now. It's like I've been demoted a security level.

  "I really want to go home," I tell her again. "I don't think this place is helping me. I think I'd do better on my own."

  She smiles. "I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard that. I could probably retire tomorrow."

  "I mean it," I say.

  "I'm sure you do. But without treatment and commitment, those are just empty words. You might as well be a drug addict who says she won't use again, or an alcoholic who promises not to drink. This is the truth: You will not get over this without help, Ruth. But you can get over it. First of all, you have to be willing. You have to want to get well."

  "I do want to get well. Why do you think I agreed to cone?"

  "Good. And you've come to the right place, and we want to help you. But you're the only one who can make it happen. You have to cooperate with the program. You have to participate with the groups. You have to be honest, Ruth. You have to accept that you have a serious problem. You have to be willing to examine the reasons why you started cutting. And then you have to deal with them."

  "But it's so hard."

  "Would it be easier to keep on cutting?"

  I don't answer.

  "I know how it feels, Ruth. I've been there. Cutting rules your life. It keeps you on the outside of things. You feel like an outcast. You think it's a way to deal with your pain, but it only brings a different kind of pain." She pauses. "And then you have to hide it from your friends. You keep lying to yourself, thinking you're going to quit, but you can't. It takes over your life, Ruth. And if you cut too deeply it might even take your life. Is that what you want?"

  I actually feel tears coming now. I try to fight them, but it's like I'm going to burst. I press my palms against my eyes.

  "Go ahead," she tells me. "Just cry. It's the first step toward healing."

  And so, feeling like the dam has burst, I sit there and cry. Nicole hands me a box of tissues, and I must go through about a dozen before I stop. I can't remember the last time I cried that much. Or maybe I can. Maybe it was last winter. At Christmastime. Right after I found out that my mom tried to kill herself.

  "Okay," says Nicole. "This is your journal assignment for today, Ruth. I want you to write about whatever it is you're thinking about right now. Can you do that?"

  I nod. "Yeah, I think so."

  "Why don't you stay here in my office and get started," she says. "And I'll go tell Juanita that she needs to check your stuff. And you can make it easier by just telling us where you've hidden it."

  I unzip my backpack and remove my Altoids box, open it up, remove the paper, and show her the blade taped to the bottom.

  "Clever," she says as she takes it. "I hadn't seen that trick yet. But then I can tell you're a smart girl, Ruth."

  And as insignificant as that one little compliment might seem to a normal person, it means more than I can even begin to explain. I pull out my journal. Most of the entries so far haven't been more than a couple of sentences. Mostly I just try to avoid writing anything at all. But in the quiet privacy of Nicole's office, I begin to write about how I was actually feeling six months ago. Back when life as I knew it really started falling apart.

  It's not like we were ever a "happy" family. I mean my dad had always been hard on us. Mom used to jokingly call him "Mr. Grisly Bear" when he was in a foul mood. And she would warn Caleb and me sometimes by quietly signaling that Dad was in one of his moods. And she was actually fairly good at "detonating" him sometimes. Occasionally she could even make him laugh at his own grumpiness.

  But it seemed like it got harder and harder with each passing year. And I suppose that it didn't help things when Caleb and I became teenagers. I remember last year when I turned fifteen and wanted to get my learner's permit to drive. Naturally, I didn't ask my dad. I went straight to Mom. And, naturally, she had no problem with it. She thought it would be great for me to learn to drive. "You can run errands and pick up Caleb for me," she happily told me.

  So I studied hard and she took me for the test, which I aced, but when Dad heard the news, he totally blew his top. He questioned Mom's sanity for allowing me to get my permit. He accused her of going behind his back and all sorts of things. Instead of being happy for me, he made me feel like a criminal. After that, Mom only took me driving a few times. I could tell it worried her a lot. Like she was afraid I'd get into a fender-bender and she'd be in hot water. Finally I just quit asking her to teach me to drive. It wasn't worth it.

  I know that wasn't the real turning point, but it seemed like Mom went downhill pretty steadily after that. It's like something inside of her was dying. She hardly ever smiled anymore. And she seemed to be avoiding Dad, then us, then life in general.

  I suppose we shouldn't have been all that shocked when she tried to kill herself. But at the time, I was totally stunned. I also thought that it was my fault. Because when I asked my dad, "Why? Why did she do it?" he said Caleb and I were driving her crazy. And then, when I started to cry, he told me to "grow up!" that "tears are for babies" and that "he wasn't going to put up with any more weakness."

  After that, I hid my tears if I cried. And after a while, I learned to hold my tears in.

  Sure, it hurt. But I guess I thought if I could contain it long enough, maybe it would eventually go away. Instead, the pain seemed to get worse. I felt like I should be wearing a sign that warned bystanders to stand back, that "contents were under pressure" and I could blow any moment ...

  On and on I write, losing track of the time. But the words just keep pouring out of me, like the pressure valve has finally been released. Not completely. That might be dangerous. But little by little, word by word, I can feel myself beginning to relax just a tiny bit.

  "It's dinnertime," says a voice I don't recognize.

  I look up to see a girl about my height with long brown hair. She's vaguely familiar, but I don't think I've actually met her, and she's not in my small group.

  "I'm Cassie," she tells me. "I'm your new roommate."

  "Oh." I feel a little guilty now. I still can't believe I was so mean to Alexi. I wonder if I should apologize or at least watch my backside.

  "Don't worry," she says as if she knows what I'm thinking. "You're not the first one to complain about sharing a room with Alexi. And she's the one who asked for a new roommate."

  "Oh."

  "Anyway, Nicole asked me to come and get you."

  "Right." I close my journal and stash it in my backpack. "Thanks."

  As I walk with Cassie toward the dining room, I feel a faint glimmer of hope. Of course, hope has fooled me before. And I'm sure I'll be fooled again. But this bit of hope actually feels like the real thing.

  twenty

  JT'S NOT LIKE EVERYTHING SUDDENLY GETS EASY AND GROOM AND WONDERFUL for me at Promise House. I still have to endure a lot of hard work and frustration. Sometimes I just want to walk out of this place and never come back. And other times I'm looking around for a potentially sharp object like broken glass, a piece of metal, even a paperclip ... and I imagine secretly cutting myself in an effort to dull the pain of really looking at my life
and all its dark corners.

  Sometimes I wonder if that strong pull, that irresistible urge to cut, will ever go away. Will I carry it with me for life? Like some of these scars?

  Even so, I haven't given in for four whole days now. I think that's a personal record. However, if I'm to be perfectly honest with myself, the way that Nicole keeps saying we must be, I don't think I'm over this yet.

  Still, it feels like I've turned a corner. And by the beginning of my second week, I'm sharing a little better during the group sessions. Even though it turns into a yelling match at times-often me against Alexi, who still seems to hate my guts-Nicole says I'm making progress.

  I've even earned a few phone calls (one of our little rewards for good behavior) and I used them to call Abby and Glen and even Uncle Rod. Abby had already guessed that I went someplace to deal with my cutting problem; she didn't say much about it and I didn't either-it was just easier that way. And no way could I work up the nerve to tell Glen or even my uncle the real truth. But I did assure Glen that my time away from home was making a difference. It's like I wanted him to think I was off on some sort of mental-health vacation. Fortunately, he didn't ask for any details but simply seemed happy for me. And I was relieved to find out, via Uncle Rod, that my mom has gone to live with Grandma Donna and Caleb. I can imagine how crowded it must be in that little mobile home, but I'm sure my mom's relieved to be there, to be away from my dad. I know I am.

  Of course, I have no idea how my dad's taking all this. It must be so weird for him to be rambling around in his empty house with no one to yell at, no one to blame or accuse or belittle. I wonder if the place is getting really messy, since he never cleans up after himself. I have to admit that I like the idea of him digging through the dirty laundry hamper for a work shirt or a pair of matching socks. And I love the idea of the garbage piling up all over the garage and dirty dishes teetering on the counter. I really, really hope that he's suffering. I hope he realizes what he lost-or what he threw away.

  It's getting easier to journal about these things now. In fact, I'm sure that I'll fill this notebook before long, and I might even need another. Writing about feelings really is good therapy It's like a safe place to say the hard stuff. And no one needs to see it.

  "Remember that it takes a good habit to replace a bad habit," Nicole is telling us today. Okay, I've heard this line from her before, but l think maybe it's actually beginning to sink in now. "The thing is," she says with emphasis, "even if you make the choice to completely quit cutting, that old impulse to cut will remain with you. Like any addiction, the compulsion can be as strong as the actual behavior. You've got to find something to replace this urge-something that will help to devour the urge to hurt yourself."

  Some of the newer girls seem confused by this. And I guess I know how they feel.

  "Say that you've had a problem with rats," she continues. "They've infested your house, they're chewing on your furniture, eating your food, and pooping all over the place. So you decide you've had enough. You're fed up, so you set out some traps, maybe even live traps if you're opposed to killing anything. This is like making the decision to quit cutting. You're done with this thing for good. So you set your traps, and before long the rats are gone and life is cool. You relax and kick back, you throw the nasty traps away, and you're ready to enjoy life as normal. What's going to happen next?"

  "The rats come back," says someone from the back. Someone who's obviously been here long enough to guess the answer.

  "Right," she says. "Like your decision to quit cutting, the traps were a good start, but seriously-who wants a bunch of rat traps sitting around their house 24/7? They're not very pretty, and it's not much fun to keep removing the rats from the traps."

  "Yeah, you're grossing me out," says someone.

  "So, what if you found something more pleasant to keep the rats away? Like what if you got a nice, friendly cat? What happens then?"

  "No more rats?" says someone else.

  "Exactly. You replace the bad habit with a good one. Cats instead of rats. Something that helps to keep the bad habit from coming back. What can you use as your cat, Charisa? What do you do when you get the urge to cut? Something that helps you to move on and avoid going backward?"

  "My guitar?" Charisa slouches, bored, like maybe she's been in this class too long too. Then she perks up a little. "And I just started writing songs," she adds. "I even wrote one about cutting."

  "And it's really good," says her roommate, Jessica, the girl I thought was stupid because she started cutting when her dog died. But what I didn't know was that her parents had just divorced and then her grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. Turns out the dog was just the tip of her iceberg.

  "That's great," says Nicole. "And what's your cat, Jessica? What habit are you replacing cutting with?"

  "Knitting."

  Charisa laughs. "And at the rate you're going, you'll have knitted a square mile before you get out of here." Everyone knows how Jessica is obsessed with knitting these little patches. They're about six inches square, and she keeps them in a plastic garbage bag. They are seriously starting to pile up.

  "What are you going to do with them?" asks another girl.

  '`I don't know." She shrugs as if she doesn't really care.

  "Maybe you should make a blanket," suggests my roommate, Cassie.

  A few others talk about their replacement habits, their "cats." But I feel kind of stuck now. I realize I've been journaling a lot, and that helps. But that's something everyone does. It doesn't seem like a great replacement.

  "How about you, Ruth?" Nicole finally asks me. "Have you thought of anything yet?"

  "I don't know," I say. "I mean, other than journaling about how I feel, I'm not sure."

  "What do you love to do?" asks Jessica suddenly.

  I just shrug. The truth is, I'm not sure that I love doing anything. That kind of excitement is just foreign to me.

  "You do like to draw," offers Cassie. "I've seen you making little doodles and sketches in your journal. And they're really good."

  I nod. "Yeah, I actually do like art a lot. But I've never done much of anything with it outside of school." And then I start to connect the dots for myself. "But that was because of my dad," I confess. "I didn't want him to make fun of me. It hurt too much."

  "I know just what you mean," says Charisa. "I'm exactly like that with my music too. I hate when someone in my family says something about it. It makes me want to smash my guitar ... or, well, you know, cut. . . "

  And suddenly we're all talking. We're worried about whether we'll be able to continue with our replacement habits once we go home. What if we fail? What if we fall back into the old patterns? But as we talk, we also manage to encourage each other, and some girls make suggestions for others. We talk about how we need to surround ourselves with friends who support and encourage Lis, people who understand that we need a replacement habit to keep the old one away.

  Finally, we come up with the catchphrase "Don't kill the cat," which means, keep your replacement habit alive and well.

  That evening I find a sketch pad and package of sketching pencils sitting on my bed, and I put them to good use doing a caricature of a grinning feline with a mouse under her paw. The caption is "Don't kill the cat." Cassie likes it so much that she shows it to Nicole, who, with my permission, makes photocopies of it for the other girls. And they actually ask me to autograph them, like I'm famous. Ha-ha. Although I admit, it feels pretty good.

  By the end of the second week, I'm feeling stronger. Oh sure, the urge to cut is still there, but it's not constant now. The group therapy sessions can be aggravating at times. And sometimes they even feel fairly redundant. But just the same, I have to admit they're helping. I guess some things have to be pounded into you before you really believe it.

  Sketching has become my main replacement habit-my cat. That and deep breathing. Also, Nicole teaches a class in yoga stretches and relaxation techniques, and I find myself actually using
these at times too. Still, I'm not sure that all this is enough. I still get frightened, like, what if I go back to cutting again, or what if I'm incurable? I know there are no guarantees. Sometimes, like when I start worrying about my family and obsessing about what's going to happen to me when I get out of here, the temptation to cut is as strong as ever.

  "Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward real healing," Nicole is saying for like the umpteenth time. And I think I've mostly gotten this. I mean, I do talk fairly openly about my problem now, and I don't pretend like I don't belong in Promise House anymore, and everyone here knows without a doubt that I'm a cutter. But I still feel like I'm holding back a little.

  For one thing, I still keep my arms covered up. Partly because I'm ashamed, and partly because I don't want to see my ugly scars. I don't want to be reminded of my own stupidity. Other girls go around in tank tops, and some of their scars are way worse than mine. But its like they're okay with it. Like they don't need to hide it anymore. I'm not there yet.

  On my fifteenth day, I decide it's time to take another step. So I go to the health room and ask Juanita if I can borrow some scissors. She gives me a serious questioning look that seems to say, Yeal1, sure. I'm going to give a cutter a sharp object, you bet.

  "To cut the sleeves off some of my shirts," I explain. "All I brought with me were these long sleeves and I-"

  "Oh, yes. Of course." She reaches into a drawer and hands me some scissors. "But only shirts, Ruth."

  I kind of laugh, but to be perfectly honest, as I carry the stainless-steel scissors upstairs, I do wonder what it would feel like to cut again. Oh, I know I'm not really going to do it. Not right now anyway. But the truth is, I wonder. And it bugs me that I would feel this way, that my brain still insists on going back there, even after two weeks without it. Man, I wish I could wipe that part of my brain clean.

  I use the scissors to make a couple shirts short-sleeved and several others entirely sleeveless. It's not much, but it's a start. Then I actually put on one of the sleeveless tops and go downstairs to return the scissors. "See," I tell Juanita, holding up my scarred but not bleeding arms.