On the morning of the fourth day after Camden left, the images returned. They popped like flashbulbs behind my eyes and I let them come, fast and forceful. They were the images of my bare arms, a razor opening the skin and relieving some of the pressure. Letting it out. Letting it hurt. Letting it bleed.
Then, images of the contents of the shoe box in my closet: a three-pack of cheap razors with two razors left, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a pack of cotton balls.
I started running the logistics through my mind. I couldn’t get any ice or frozen peas this time, not with Richard and Dani eating breakfast out there. But it would just be a small cut. Tiny, up high, so nobody would know. And I would still feel the release of it.
It wouldn’t count, not really, but it would help.
I went into my closet, then poked around in the back until I felt the corner of a shoe box lid sharp against my fingers. The comforting whisper-rustle as I pulled it out through my hanging clothes. I sat on the floor of my room and drew the box into my lap. Broke the tape on either side of the lid and popped it open, my hands shaking.
But the razors and alcohol and cotton balls were gone. In their place was a white envelope that simply said Arianna on the front.
I stared at it for a few moments, trying to process what it meant.
Then I tore the seal on the envelope.
The letter was handwritten on yellow legal paper, cursive swirls in blue ink.
Dear Arianna,
When I found this box, my first thought was to confront you. (I wasn’t snooping, I swear. I was looking for outgrown stuff to donate to the domestic violence shelter.)
But then I knew you had to be ready to hear what I have to say. If you’re reading this it’s probably because you’re feeling the urge to harm yourself again. Which means you’re ready now. Does that make sense? God, I hope so.
Ari, I need to say this: I have been there. I never got as far as you did. But I can say with certainty that I have felt what you’ve felt. I know you know this in a general way, and I’m sorry we never talked about the details. Maybe they would have helped you. Your therapist wanted me to, but I just couldn’t. I realize now that I was struggling more than I thought I was, and in denial about that.
It has been so painful to know that you inherited this burden from me.
But I have to say, seeing you dressed as Satina Galt did something to me. It reminded me that I gave you good things, too, like this role model. The way you (and Satina, and yes, sometimes me, too) want so badly to do your best, to make everything okay for everyone, that you’re not sure how to fit your own needs in there, too. The way you value strength and self-confidence—that was my wish for you. But I also know it’s hard to actually achieve.
I think you’re amazing. Maybe someday I’ll be able to show you.
If you are in pain, let me see it. If you found this letter because you were thinking of using the things in the box, call me. Wherever you are or wherever I am, I will come.
Love,
Mom
I read the letter twice. Then I wept. Then I read it again.
My mother.
Dabbing alcohol on the cuts on my arms, then wrapping them gently with bandages and gauze. Not saying a word. Sitting with her knees at perfect right angles beneath the Disney Princesses poster in the waiting room of my pediatrician’s office. Putting her arm around me as I stepped out, taking the prescription note from my hand. Filling it and leaving it on my bed.
It was the only version of her I wanted to think about. It was the only one that existed, right then.
I knew I should do what she requested, but I couldn’t call her. Not yet. In the meantime, I took the box and walked it outside and stuffed the whole thing in the trash.
“Sorry I’ve had them so long,” I said to Kendall the next day, handing over a pair of black jeans with patches on the knees. I’d borrowed them months ago and forgotten until she asked for them back so she could take them on her trip. We were standing in my driveway while Kendall’s mom waited in the car. They had a day’s worth of errands and I was first on the list.
“No worries. I have stuff of yours, too.” She produced a plastic grocery bag tied at the handles.
I took it, and burst into tears. I’d been on a bit of a hair trigger since I’d found the letter.
“It’s not like I’m going away forever!” said Kendall. “I didn’t want you to want any of this while I was gone and then be mad at me!”
I moved toward our front porch so Kendall’s mom couldn’t hear me.
“It’s not that.” I paused, wiped my nose. “Camden broke up with me.”
Kendall came closer. “What? When?”
“A few days ago. He ran away to his mom’s in Vermont.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“I feel ashamed. I didn’t want to talk about it because that made it real.”
Kendall made a frustrated noise. “Ari. You have to talk about these things. And you have to talk to me about them. If we’re going to stay friends and you’re going to stay healthy, that has to happen. Understand?”
I nodded, almost crying again simply from the relief of being told what to do.
Kendall glanced back at her mom, who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.