‘They’re autobiographical. These people talk about how they used different techniques to combat their own struggles with self-harm. This guy—’ She taps Adrian’s picture. He’s old, maybe late fifties, with white hair and glasses. He looks like he’s lived most of his life in a library. ‘He used to draw pictures on his skin when he got the urge to scratch. And this woman—’ She opens booklet number two and we meet Roxie Gaines, a girl only a little older than me but infinitely cooler with her bright blue hair and black make-up. ‘Roxie squeezed the stuffing out of stress balls instead of hurting herself.’ Dr Reeves abandons the show-and-tell, ducks down, and disappears inside her snakeskin purse. It’s faux; I asked the first day we met.
‘I got you something,’ she says, producing a brown paper bag. She tips the bag upside down, and half a dozen rainbow-dipped balls roll out. They bounce around on the table for a couple of seconds, but Dr Reeves corrals them with her arms, and they come to a standstill. ‘Stress balls,’ she says proudly. ‘I was thinking you could discreetly carry one around in your pocket and do what Roxie did.’
She picks up one of the rainbow-splattered rounds and squeezes it into a pancake. ‘The guy at the store told me they were almost indestructible.’ It’s adorable to watch her test this theory, teeth clenched, tugging and pulling the ball in all different directions. Admittedly, I’m wondering if I could break one.
‘Your turn,’ the doc says.
I pick up the ball that looks the most yellow. It’s spongy but has a coating that feels like clay. I squeeze it, and I’m almost disappointed when my fingers don’t pierce the outer shell regardless of how hard I push.
‘Norah, tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘I’m thinking if I take this, it will be like accepting what you’re saying.’ I’m finding it very hard to believe that this whole time I haven’t been in control of the one thing I thought I was.
‘Is that a bad thing?’ Dr Reeves asks, taking more notes.
‘That depends on whether or not I’m going to end up in a hospital.’ I can’t look at her, so instead I roll the ball around in a figure eight.
‘Why would you end up in a hospital?’
‘Because hurting yourself is not exactly something stable people do.’ I’m not fully invested in the idea that scratching and self-harm are the same, but I keep that piece of info to myself.
‘People hurt themselves for lots of different reasons, but right now I’m confident that you’re not trying to escape life.’
‘I’m not at all,’ I agree vehemently.
‘Right. But I do think we need to re-evaluate how you cope with stress. So what do you say, maybe we can give this a shot?’ She’s not really giving me a choice. All I want to do is erase this conversation with brain bleach.
I nod, can’t say yes because scratching is a normal response, and I can’t get past thinking everyone does it. I don’t hate myself for it. It can’t possibly be the same as self-harm. I don’t always break the skin, and when I do, the marks don’t even scar. In fact, they totally disappear within a week. I’ve seen more damage from squeezing pimples, so how is it self-harm?
When I get back to my room, the stress balls, along with the happy-shiny pamphlets, get dumped in the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I’m almost certain they’ll stay until the day I die.
I’m tired and my bed looks so inviting, soft and safe, like a giant pile of feathers, willing me to come over and rest my head, which is suddenly so heavy my shoulders shudder under the weight. I want to burrow, sleep until next spring. This isn’t good. I don’t want to turn to sludge before tonight. I have to stay perky. Sunny. Excited. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m practically a pro at beating back sadness.
I veer left, drag unwilling legs away from my bed and plonk myself back at my dressing table. The chair that came with it is anything but inviting. I think at one point it might have been used as some sort of medieval torture device, despite the expensive velvet upholstery covering the seat.
Only two butt-numbing hours until Luke arrives. At 6.45, Mom lets me know that she’s making herself scarce and scuttles off to her bedroom. Exercise and I are estranged, but I have fifteen minutes to fill and I can’t sit still, so I do laps around my room while chewing the inside of my mouth into a mini–mountain range. At least I’m not scratching.
I squeeze my hands to keep them from shaking. According to 90 per cent of the internet, everybody gets nervous before a first date. But then I guess it’s pretty safe to assume most of that 90 per cent are worrying about making a good first impression, not wondering what sort of bacteria their date will be breathing into their airspace or trying to determine the odds of choking to death on a piece of popcorn.
I decide to avoid eating solids altogether . . . just while he’s here.
Luke knocks on the door at 7.01, and I trip down the stairs, making a din like a running herd of wild wildebeests. I take the last step twice then race to the door, my arms only slightly bruised, my legs begging not to be used any more today.
‘Hi.’ Luke flashes me that grin, and my motor functions fail. ‘You look really good,’ he tells me. ‘You always look good.’ He tips his head, rubs the back of his neck, and I think I see a slight red tinge blossom on his cheeks.