Takes One To Know One

Chapter 4

“Hello everyone,” an annoyingly overjoyed woman says to us teenagers at the mental hospital. We’re in our first therapy group of the day, but mainly everyone is just trying to stay awake. We all give her a “hi” which sounds like it looks more effort than it should have, considering we were all half asleep.

On my left sat Bella, on my right sat Grace, and next to Grace were Hailey and Crystal. Luke sat on the other side of the room with a few of his guy friends. Before the group started, Daniel kept making jokes about how tired we all are, claiming he knows we’re actually just being lazy.

“Today I’m going to talk to you all about getting over bad memories,” she says as she examines all of us. I feel as if we’re being monitored here.

The perky, overjoyed lady began again, “All of you have experienced bad moments in your life; that’s what got you here. And now I bet all of you get flashbacks of those bad memories in your minds, correct?” We all shake our heads up and down in unison.

“Getting those flashbacks is normal, but how you deal with them is different. Sometimes, these flashbacks will drive people crazy, others can just shrug the flashbacks off.

“When you get these flashbacks, you just need to remind yourself that the past is the past, and that you’re in the present. This also goes back to the thought-stopping group we had yesterday. Use some of those coping mechanisms to stop the flashbacks.” The group continued on, the lady then beginning to talk about how to calm yourself down when you’re in an angry mood. However, I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying because I kept thinking about the flashbacks. I realized that I get flashbacks all the time, almost constantly. I had flashbacks at Christie’s office yesterday of my friends and family when I told them I cut myself. My flashbacks are horrible. They consume my mind. I guess I’m the group the lady was talking about where the flashbacks make them go crazy.

Thinking about flashbacks in general sparked a flashback in my mind of the first time I cut myself.

It was late at night; my whole family was asleep. I looked in the mirror and watched the tears roll down my face. I grabbed my razor from inside the shower and sat down on the cold bathroom floor. Suddenly, I attacked my wrist. Adrenaline rushed through me. I felt so eager to make the first cut; wanting to hurt myself inside and out. It sounds horrible, I know, but my sick, twisted mind thinks things I cannot control.

Each time the blade grazed my skin; I whispered something to myself, “worthless, stupid, ugly, fat, depressed, annoying, stubborn.” In one sudden movement, I pelted the razor down felt traumatized by watching the blood drip down from the gazing while. I stopped crying, and suddenly felt better. It was as if all of the problems inside me were finally going out of my body. It felt like I was releasing all the dark secrets I’ve hidden inside myself. I can’t deny it; it felt astonishing.

I watched the blood slowly drip down my wrist, the trail of blood touching my palm. I looked at my wrist and noticed what I’ve done. I’m a cutter. I can never take that back. The tears welcomed themselves back into my eyes. I will always be a cutter because of this; I can never take that moment back.

I remember my eyes wandering to the blade placed very firmly in my right hand, then at the cuts on my left wrist. It reminded me how weak I am; how easy I am to break. Am I just setting myself up for failure? Clearly, the relief I got from self-harm had worn off and the aftershock effects edge on inside me.

I stood up from the cold floor and looked at myself in the mirror. I barely recognized myself. My bloodshot eyes from crying glared at me, and then roamed down the blood still escaping from my wrist. I quickly started rummaging through the bathroom cabinets to find Band-Aids, but with my luck, found none. I wiped my eyes before softly opening the door. Silently and carefully, I get it open and tip toe my way towards the hall closet.