Furiously Happy (11 page)

Instead I just started looking online for someone who was selling taxidermied bear hands from a bear that died of old age because I thought I could just nail them under the bear like he was coming through the wall. Or maybe I could glue him and the paws to a mirror like there was a bear magically coming out of the mirror and then Victor was all, “WHAT THE SHIT? You can't glue a bear to a mirror. That's fucking crazy. And also,
WHY IS THERE A BEAR IN MY BED
?” and I was like, “Because that one's
juuust right
,” and Victor looked at me incredulously because apparently his mother never read him “Goldilocks.” He glared at me and so I just sighed and said, “Because I was all out of horse and I know how much you like
The Godfather
?” Then he got mad that I was going to spend money on bear arms, and I was like, “
I have the right to bear arms, Victor
,” and then I realized what I'd said and we both started giggling for a bit. And
that
moment? That's the moment when I realized how incredibly lucky I am to have spent eighteen years with a man who can laugh at bad gun-control jokes while a severed bear head is lying on his pillow.

“His name is Claude,” I said. “Get it?
Clawed?
”

I could tell he got it because I could see him rolling his eyes. Although he might have been rolling his eyes because Claude has no claws and he thought I was being ironic. I'm not actually sure if it's ironic or not. That Alanis Morissette song sort of fucked up irony for everyone.

“You really
do
love me, don't you?” I asked. “You bought me taxidermy. You are
literally
bearing your heart.”

Victor scratched his head. “I don't think that's how ‘literally' works. And that's not really the right use of the word ‘bare' either.”

And, well, maybe not … but I think that's how
love
works. Sometimes it means doing the washing up when it's not your mess, and sometimes it's driving to the airport three times in one week to pick up a loved one, and sometimes it's all unexpected bears and possible surprise giraffes. Probably not so much the last ones for most people, but then again, we're not most people.

And thank God for that.

PS: This is Claude. Please give him a hand.
(Two, preferably.)

 

The Fear

(Note: This is where I'd put a mild trigger warning for self-harm, but frankly this whole damn book—
and life in general
—deserves a trigger warning. Sorry about that.)

Some stories aren't meant to be told.

There was too much blood, I remember thinking. I could feel it dripping down my neck and I ran to get a towel, applying pressure to the cuts along my scalp.

“You okay in there?” Victor asked quietly from the other side of the bathroom door.

I was fine. I was fine. I was … bleeding. Badly. And I felt … relief? The pressure in my head was gone. The pain in me was floating away, making room for a pain so much easier to bear. The panic was fading slowly, and I told Victor I was okay and that he could go back to bed, but I could already hear him fumbling with the lock on the bathroom door. He was an expert at picking this lock and I knew I only had a few seconds before he'd be in. I shoved the bloody towel in the cupboard and turned the sink on to wash my hands.

Too late.

Victor walked in, that look on his face. I could never quite place it. Resigned. Angry. Scared? It was probably the look I'd have on my face if I allowed myself to feel those things. But I didn't. Instead, I cut. Not with a knife. I chose a weapon much more personal, and more punishing. I chose me.

It wasn't really a secret anymore. Victor had known that I hurt myself for years. But it had never been this bad. I picked at my cuticles until they bled, but so what? So do lots of people. I picked at scabs when I was nervous. It's gross but not unusual. I pulled my hair. Out. By the roots. And I couldn't stop until large handfuls were on my lap. I scratched my scalp and forehead. Deeply. With nails specially filed for slicing. Victor would grab at my hands while we lay in bed to keep me from doing it, but I couldn't stop myself. Nor could I explain it.

Impulse control disorder
.
Trichotillomania. Dermatillomania.

That's what the shrink called it. She said it wasn't uncommon for people like me with anxiety disorders and avoidant personality disorder. I thought she was wrong. I'm fine being labeled with an anxiety disorder.
I'm
perfectly fine. It's just my anxiety that's in disarray. But “personality disorder”? That meant … broken.

“But I'm not broken,” I explained to my psychiatrist. “I just … I just hurt … inside. And when I tear at the outside it makes me feel less torn up on the inside.”

She nodded, waiting.

“I don't want to die.”

She waited.

“Really, I don't. It's not a lie. I'm
not
suicidal. I just feel like sometimes I can't keep myself from hurting me. It's like there's someone else inside of me who needs to physically peel those bad thoughts out of my head and there's no other way to get in there. The physical pain distracts me from the mental pain.”

She waited.

“It sounds crazy when I say it out loud,” I whispered. “Sometimes I think I might really be crazy.”

“If you were crazy you wouldn't realize how crazy it sounds,” she said gently but insistently. “You're recognizing a problem and you're getting help for it, the same way any sane person with a medical problem would.”

My hands itched to pull at my hair but I forced them to lie on my lap. There was dried blood under my nails. “This is why they put people in straitjackets,” I thought to myself, “to stop them from hurting themselves.”

And then we started a very long process of behavioral therapy, of drugs and of meetings with doctors. I read books with twelve-step programs designed to stem unhealthy needs.

Sometimes the impulse ended with a twinge … just a thought that I needed to scratch or to hurt myself, and then I was able to stop myself by redirecting the thought. Sometimes it was harder and I'd wear rubber bands around my hands, snapping them against my wrists to mimic the pain of cutting without the risk of infection or worse. Some nights I'd find myself hunched over the kitchen sink, crying pathetically as I forced myself to squeeze handfuls of ice until it burned like I'd stuck my arm in a fire. And sometimes … I'd relapse. Those nights are dark. They shine like broken glass in my memory, as I flirted with danger and allowed myself to cut, and bleed, and shed pieces of this body that has so betrayed me.

Sometimes Victor finds me the next morning with bloody hands, or a thin spot in my hair that I'll have to comb over, and he asks me, “
Why can't you just stop?
” He asks me why I would victimize myself intentionally, and he looks at me as if he thinks I could actually explain.

I can't.

I can't even tell myself why I am this way. I just know that it's how I'm made … and maybe one day someone will crack open this head of mine and find out what's wrong in there … and also what is right.

Because it's both.

Without the dark there isn't light. Without the pain there is no relief. And I remind myself that I'm lucky to be able to feel such great sorrow, and also such great happiness. I can grab on to each moment of joy and live in those moments because I have seen the bright contrast from dark to light and back again. I am privileged to be able to recognize that the sound of laughter is a blessing and a song, and to realize that the bright hours spent with my family and friends are extraordinary treasures to be saved, because those same moments are a medicine, a balm. Those moments are a promise that life is worth fighting for, and that promise is what pulls me through when depression distorts reality and tries to convince me otherwise.

Maybe the scales that weigh everyone else's emotions don't work for me. Maybe my scales are greater. Or less. Maybe instead of a scale I've wandered off to one of those nowhere places where you wait. And maybe one day I'll be found, and someone will explain to me why I am the way that I am.

Or maybe not.

After all, some stories aren't meant to be told.

 

Skinterventions and Bangtox

I've never been much of one for cosmetic enhancements or additions. I don't understand the need to stuff yourself with Botox, or implants, or collagen injections; however, I can
completely
understand the urge to strip stuff away in the name of beauty. I am a sucker for PedEggs, getting the fat pummeled out of you with high-frequency radio waves, wraps that make you sweat out your toxins, and cleanses that make you shit out your colon. Somehow that all seems healthier to me. Or at least more likely to make me less of who I am. Which is probably pretty unhealthy, now that I think about it.

*   *   *

I think I may need to call my shrink to tell her I just had a breakthrough.
Hang on.

*   *   *

Okay, I'm back. Turns out that my shrink sends all her calls to her answering service after ten p.m. and they were disappointingly unimpressed with my epiphany about why I have dermatillomania. Probably because they don't even know what dermatillomania is. In fact, even spell-check doesn't know what it is and when I asked it for suggestions it just said “
LEARN SPELLING.
” Which is both rude
and
unhelpful, spell-check. Dermatillomania is an impulse control disorder that makes you want to scratch your skin off. It flares up when I'm stressed out and I find myself scratching at any imperfections. I usually pick at my scalp until it won't stop bleeding, or at my thumb, which is now permanently deformed from years of self-damage. It's sort of shitty and I don't recommend it.

I've found healthier ways of dealing with this need to pick my skin off, like wrapping my fingers with tape, or coating my hair with coconut oil so it reminds me not to unconsciously scratch. I've also found not-so-healthy ways, like when I heard about “microdermabrasion,” which I suspect is Latin for “I want to pull off your skin and turn it into a jacket.” My dermatologist sent me an e-mail about it, saying something about how my new skin was suffocating underneath layers of my old, dead skin, and I suddenly felt like I was wearing a mask of dust mites and dirt. I needed to have this done immediately and I couldn't go alone.

“SO THERE'S THIS NEW THING I HEARD ABOUT WHERE THEY RIP YOUR SKIN OFF,” I may have screamed over the phone to my friend Laura.

She was silent for a bit and so I explained,
“
BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU PRETTIER.
”

She still seemed slightly unconvinced so I continued. “I got a coupon for this microdermabrasion thingie. As I understand it, they rip off your face skin to make you look nice. I don't know what they have against face skin but apparently it's very out of style. Much like pubic hair. And Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“
What does everyone have against Gwyneth?
” Laura asked, slightly annoyed.

We'd gotten off track. Clearly I wasn't describing this right. I continued: “Laura, they rub your face off using
DIAMONDS
. It's like a giant FUCK-YOU to the homeless. Like, I'M USING DIAMONDS TO RIP MY OWN FACE OFF. That's how little I care for diamonds
or my face
. Except that personally I plan to
keep
my bloody diamond waste and strain it out like the miners do when they pan for gold. That way I get a pan full of diamonds
and
some face skin. IT'S ALMOST LIKE THE FACE RIPPERS ARE PAYING ME TO DO THIS. Plus, you get a skin consultation and analysis so basically you get your face ripped off
and
then they tell you how shitty you look. But that's the price of beauty. That and forty-five dollars with Groupon. Apparently.”

“Wait a second,” Laura replied. “So I'm paying to have someone rip off my face
and then
shame
me
? It's like this was
made
for women. COUNT ME IN.”

“
Right?
” I said. “They'll probably bring people in off the street to laugh at us. It's gonna be like high school all over again. WHO SAYS NO TO THIS?”

Laura was in. “Sign me up. I'm going to hang up now before you convince me that being friends with you is
too
good for my self-esteem. Call me if something else medieval and torturous opens up. Like nipple waxing. Or bloodletting.”

And that was all it took. Because we were broken women who were all about paying stupid amounts of money to protect our sensitive face skin until someone offered to burn it all off for even more money.

I'm not sure why women are often so vulnerable to every suggestion involving our faces but for me it's like I'm having an abusive relationship with my own head. I use nothing but soap and water until one of those mall beauticians stops me on my way to buy a pretzel to tell me how bad I look and convinces me to lavish my face with an expensive cream that makes me immediately break out, probably because my face is not used to being cared for and is panicking. Then I have to buy different expensive creams to fix the breakout. I'm told I need something to open up my pores so they can breathe, and the next week I'm assailed by shame-based commercials telling me that my pores are so big gophers have fallen into them, so I buy something for that too and suddenly I look like I have very fancy leprosy. Then my dermatologist says, “
What have you done to your skin?
Stop everything you're doing. Just use this cream to clear this all up.” But when I put it in my medicine cabinet I realize it's the
exact same cream
that started this mess, but ten times as expensive because it came from my doctor. Then I'm like, “FUCK YOU, FACE. I'LL BURN YOU OFF WITH FRUIT ACIDS AND DIAMONDS.”