The Blood Pours Out, The Pain Stays In

The bright yellow eyes stare into mine. They hold my gaze as the wolf stares into my soul. So bold, so brave, why can’t I be more like the creature depicted on this souvenir. It speaks to me. The fangs open just wide enough for a whisper: “it’s time.” I nod. I pull the blade from the wolf’s belly. I could have sworn I saw the blade twinkle, but I am in the dark. Again the wolf whispers: “you can do it, be strong.” I will do it. The knife slices through my arm once …no twice. A third time is done higher up to be less conspicuous. I wait for what seems like 300 centuries. Then is comes, the blood. It pours down my right arm first. I stop to admire its beauty. Now I watch the other arm but the original is coming too fast, too fast, too fast. I lick it off like the dog on my knife….it disappears…I’m okay…I lick the other…but it bubbles to the top again and starts all over, stronger than ever. I give another lick then run to the bathroom. I wash my hands with coldwater to clot the blood. It slows, my heart rate slows, my breathing slows, I'm tired, I fall asleep.
I wake up to my alarm, thank god I set it or I would sleep forever, a statue frozen in time. My alarm? That means I’ve only slept for four minutes. I feel my arm burning as if a fire was set beneath my skin, it wasn’t a dream. I have to go to dinner. I get ready, my arms are still stinging. I don’t cut myself to release the pain, quite the contrary, I feel horrible. The cuts bring a throbbing sensation, not the euphoric feeling I’ve read about, but that’s not why I do it. I don’t do it to feel better, but to feel worse. If my arm is in enough pain I can focus on the twinge instead of closing each cabinet perfectly sixteen times, checking behind the doors, washing my hands, turning the lights on and off, making my body “even,” inspecting the windows… Without the cutting, my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would never have let me leave the house on time.
The pain never lasts long, my compulsions return to haunt me. I go to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror, “Stupid, ugly, pathetic, worthless.” I’m not sure anymore if me or the reflection is speaking. I go to the bathroom and shut the toilet lid four times, turn to the shower and inspect each corner, wash my hands diligently, and then…the worst part: The Cabinets. I have to open them and let them fall shut at the exact same time, a near impossible task. If one shuts and then bounces the other must bounce shut the same amount of times. I begin. No success. Again, not even close. The next beats me with a bounce. I’m becoming increasingly frustrated. I feel my enemy, Time, race ahead of me. I check my watch, ten minutes has gone by. I will just do it one more time whether it lands right or not. It doesn’t. I get up to walk away, I can’t. I return and start again. I look at the watch, twenty five minutes in. I got it! I know I haven’t, I heard the cabinets hit at different times. It’s a lie. I continue. Fifty minutes in, I can’t take it. I feel the tears run down my face as I plead with the cabinet doors. Seventy minutes, I can’t do it. I run to the stairs and leap. I fly over the first four and roll down the rest. I land at the bottom with a hard thud. My eyes open, I’m not dead, not even injured. The cupboard doors still aren’t even, I return to them.
It is the next day, my mom asks about my cuts and bruises. I say my cat scratched me. I give a detailed story, too detailed to be questioned but I can tell she is suspicious. She knows about my OCD but not what I do about it. I reflect on the school day, it was gruesome. People kept bumping into me and I can feel their germs crawling all over me. I take a shower, it takes me two hours, better than I expected. I remember my homework, there’s no time. I rush and can’t figure out what it’s asking of me. I get up to take a break and eat a snack. Bad idea. They are kept in the cupboard. I can’t close it right. I see my homework waiting, there’s no way I will finish. I start slamming the cupboards. My mom tells me to stop so instead I bang my head, harder and harder with every hit. My mom grabs me and holds me but I break free. I’m screaming, “Get off me, I can’t fuckin’ take it, I can’t stop, I hate this life, I want out!” My mother presses my head to her chest. I break. I’m crying, the water doesn’t stop. We fall to the ground together.
My mother has taken me to a Behavior Center called Roger’s. It’s a facility that I attend three hours a day to help me eliminate my rituals. I practice everyday but it doesn’t seem to help. I could be spending three hours getting some of my rituals done. We go around the group telling about ourselves. A boy shows where he has pulled his hair out. It gets to me, I cover my arms, I don’t want to share. Its two and a half weeks in. I’m going to tell my mom I am not going to come again. I walk out of the bathroom after washing my hands and try to find my mother. I am stopped dead in my tracks. I return to the bathroom and stare in awe at the cupboard under the sink, untouched by my hands. Is this Hope?

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