Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (19 page)

"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.

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."