‘Yes, but no.’ I dismiss her poorly disguised suggestion with a snort. ‘I’m not doing that.’ I mean, I am, like, every once in a while. But she seems to be suggesting that itching is the same as slicing, which it’s not. Maybe she’s the one not so familiar with the term self-harm.
I’m done with this session. It’s just gotten ridiculous. Too ridiculous. And that’s coming from someone who, nine times out of ten, can emotionally invest in an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. I wonder how mad Mom will get if I just leave the table and go hide in my room. I wonder if she’ll call off my date with Luke.
She wouldn’t.
She might.
I start thinking about breaking stuff.
Dr Reeves is talking about control, describing how I feel when I hold scissors to my leg. But it’s not the same. Everybody scratches an itch. Sometimes scratches bleed. Self-harm is something I do in private – barely ever – to make myself feel better. It’s intense and frightening. It’s not having a quick scratch in front of folk. Right? Was notorious bogie-picker and small-scab-eater Tommy Martin accused of self-harm in the first grade every time he picked himself a snack? No. I really think she’s making a fuss over nothing. Scratching is normal, and I don’t appreciate her tearing strips off my already shaky sanity.
My legs are gearing up to go when I feel a sting in my thumb like I’ve been bitten by a fire ant. My nail’s broken through skin. There’s blood. My mind flashes back to last week and the well of scarlet pooling on my thigh.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t.
I was just itching.
Everybody itches.
Everybody.
Except the answer to Dr Reeves’s original question was no. There was no itch. My eyes scrunch shut. I’m trying really hard to conjure a memory of a tickle, a fizz, a crawling sensation, something that would warrant the blood now crusting beneath my nails, but I get nothing. There was no itch, no reason to scratch myself senseless.
I jump up from my chair, hand stretched out in front of me, glaring at it like I’ve sprouted extra fingers. I want to get away from it but swiftly realize I can’t. So instead, I head to the sink, flick on the cold water, and wash away the blood. I snatch the soap, squeeze a gallon of the green liquid on to my hands, then start rubbing. The new wound stings, but I keep going until I can’t see marred skin through the thick cloud of bubbles. I rinse and repeat until my hands feel clean.
When I’m finished, I exhale a breath so loaded it shakes the leaves on the trees outside.
‘You’re laying this on me now? Right before my first date ever?’ I whimper. Trembling legs carry me back over to my chair. I plop down, plant my elbows on the table, and bury my forehead in my hands. I can see my reflection in the glossy tabletop. No make-up in the world is strong enough to hide this revelation on my face. I’d need cement, a sandblast, a brand-new fucking face. I slam a fist down on my reflection.
‘Norah, listen to me.’ Dr Reeves is drawing a tree on the table again. With a single sideways glance I axe it down. ‘It’s because of your date that I wanted to talk to you about this. Relationships are hard for anyone.’
We’re not even in a relationship, my mind argues, and I pout internally like a child. Of course I don’t correct her because I’m smart enough to know that, when it comes to a mind like mine, labels are moot. Feelings are involved and that’s really all that matters. Dr Reeves starts explaining that butchering your body isn’t uncommon in the fight to feel in control.
Like she’s dealing cards, she lays three brightly coloured pamphlets in front of me. They all depict smiling folk basking under a summer sun. They’re bright, cheery, shiny: everything self-harm is not. It’s a series called Coping Without Cutting. Subtle. I’m sure all of the kids feel comfortable reaching for these.
‘Take a look,’ Dr Reeves says encouragingly as she slides the first booklet a little closer to me. ‘Think of it like being prepared,’ she says. ‘You might not need it, but it can’t hurt to know a little something about what’s happening.’
The author of the booklet is some guy called Adrian Crowe. His name is written in Comic Sans because these guys are clearly down with the kids. I could breathe into a bottle of milk right now and turn it sour.
I peel back the first page, read the opening paragraph with my nose tipped so high I can smell the ceiling. I wish I could invest in the words instead of picturing myself being shut inside an asylum.