Worth It (5 page)

My gut is a tangled mess, but my eyes don’t stray from the box cutter. The possibility of relieving some of this ache is taking over my body, making it grow rigid. With a trembling hand, I lean over without thinking, and I grasp the box cutter tightly. My heart pounds hard, and sweat breaks across my brow as I slowly, centimeter by centimeter, slide the blade up. I don’t look away from the sharp edge as the breath from my lungs comes in short, quick pants. My palms are sweating so much that I switch the box cutter to my left hand to wipe the moisture from my palm. Tears form a steady path down my face while I put the cutter back in my right hand and gently press the blade against my wrist bone, but it’s not piercing—not yet.

Breathing deeply, I hold the air in and clench my eyes closed, and then I drag the blade across my skin. The stinging cut registers, and in that moment, I understand. As my mind blanks and washes away the pain and the shaking of my body, I completely understand why people do this.

I’ve found a new drug.

In that brief moment, I feel pain, yes, but not the ragged grief. In that flash of time, from the adrenaline and the stinging distraction on my wrist, my pain is replaced with nothingness. The aching throb from my shallow cut clears my head, and my shoulders sag with relief.

When I open my eyes, I almost laugh because I can see the morbid poetry of the red rising from my skin. My blood is my pain, and by releasing a small drop of blood, I’ve relieved my pain. It’s almost like I have an outward representation of what’s inside.

But soon, the feeling fades, bringing me back to reality, and as shame sets in, my face crumples.
What have I been reduced to?
I slowly lower myself until my back is lying on the ground, and I am staring up at the ceiling. My shoulders shake as I close my eyes and cry, letting my grief and self-hatred consume me.

Without looking, I retract the blade, and I clutch the box cutter close to my chest. I let out a frustrated growl because I know that this won’t be the last time. I will have to be careful so that no questions are asked, but maybe I can just do it when I’m as desperate as I was just now.

That’s not so bad, right?

A few more tears slip out, and I curl into the fetal position as I struggle with myself. I know this isn’t the answer. It’s wrong and disgraceful. My chest aches with shame. I should have never done this in the first place. Now, I know how it feels to have the pain taken away, even briefly, and my fingers twitch to do it again.

Why can’t I be stronger?

Why can’t I shoulder this?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A year later, my roommate, Kristina, bangs on our dorm room door and yells, “Come on!”

“I’ll be out in a second!”

“Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs. Hurry up.”

I hear her footsteps leave, and when our dorm door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m finally by myself.

It’s been a year since I first started doing this, but I’m getting good at controlling the urge. The ability to control it gives me a sense of relief, and I think going away to college has helped. Time, a change of scenery, and of course, my blade has helped me to be somewhat content with my life. I’m proud of the fact that I’m getting stronger, and I’ve only cut myself four times since I’ve been here. It’s only situations like these when I need it—the relief.

Somehow, I let Kristina talk me into going to a party tonight. I’ve never been to one, and I don’t like crowds. I break out in a cold sweat, and elephants start tap-dancing in my gut just from thinking about it. I palm the box cutter in my hand, and just holding it begins to calm my shaking body. It knows what is coming—the break from the pulsating anxiety.

I engage the blade, and then I move the thick leather bracelet concealing the evidence of my weakness. I don’t like that I do this. In fact, I hate myself for it, but it gives me control, and it takes away the bad emotions—the pain, the anxiety, the feeling of worthlessness.

I make the quick cut, and my wrist stings, but everything else melts away. Everything is totally and blissfully blank, except for my throbbing wrist. I close my eyes and smile in relief.

But a few moments later, the nothingness fades. As reality begins to trickle back in, I grimace at my bleeding wrist, hating my weakness.
Ugh!
I shake my head, trying to clear the feelings. My fingers twitch to do it again, but I remind myself that I’m in control, and it doesn’t control me.

Blowing out a deep breath, I put my leather cuff back in place and toss my blade back into my purse where it always stays. I leave the room to meet up with Kristina. As I head down the hall, I shake out my arms, trying to get rid of the residual bad feelings.

I can do this.

Who knows? Maybe opening myself up to new experiences will be a step in the right direction—a step toward the happiness that I truly want to find.

“Will you hold my drink? I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh, sure,” Kristina says as she takes the red Solo cup from me.

I’ve stuck to my roommate like glue even though I don’t know her all that well. I’m still a little jittery about meeting new people and making small talk. I’m horrible at it. I recognize a few people from my classes as I make my way to the bathroom, and I tentatively smile at them. Thankfully, no one is in line, which is surprising for a frat party. I do my business, wash my hands, and make my way back to Kristina.

When I get to the spot where she was talking with some guy, she’s not there. I scan the room, looking for her, but I don’t see her anywhere. I do notice my cup with my name scrawled on it. Picking it up from the end table, I take a sip and look around the room again. I start wandering around the frat house, nervously sipping my beer.

The longer time ticks by, my stomach starts to churn.
Where the hell is she?

Less than twenty minutes later, my vision starts to become fuzzy, and I blink my eyes hard a few times to get them to clear. With a furrowed brow, I peer down at my nearly empty cup.

This is only my second beer. Why am I so wobbly?

Taking a staggering step, a prickling sensation runs along my scalp with the realization that I’m
really
fucked-up, and I need to leave. I think I’m starting to panic, and numbness is seeping into my body.

I need to find my roommate.
Where the fuck did she go?

I stumble as I reach the kitchen, and I bump into someone.

“Hey, watch it!”

“Sthorry,” I slur. I lift my unsteady head, and with narrowed eyes and a lot of effort, I meet his gaze.

The guy’s tight face softens, and his brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

I blink slowly at him a few times. “I think I need to sit down.”

“I think this one had too much to drink. I’ll take her upstairs to lie down,” some guy says as he drapes an arm around my shoulder.

I don’t argue because the numbness is weighing down my limbs, and I think I really should lie down. He guides me upstairs and catches me when I trip on a step. I’m barely able to stand up as he opens a door and brings me into a dark room.

Why the hell am I so fucked-up?

“Thanks,” I mumble as he helps me lie down.

In the back of my head, I’m a little weirded out that I’m lying on some stranger’s bed, but I’m so tired, and my limbs are so heavy that I don’t really care.

Warm lips touch mine, and a tongue finds its way into my mouth. The shock of the kiss wakes me up a tiny bit, and I pry my eyes open and try to turn my head.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he whispers as his hand travels up my shirt.

“No.” I try to brush his hand away, but I can’t even keep my eyes open, let alone lift my hand.

Alarm pricks at my brain, and I know I should be freaking the fuck out right now, but I’m not. All I want to do is sleep.

Two years later, I’m running late. After the night that I refuse to think about, I moved back home and started commuting to the local state college. I’m fucking exhausted because I closed at the pizza place last night, and when I got home, I couldn’t sleep. I kept having nightmares, and when I woke up, I cut. Five times in one night is a record for me. I wear two leather cuffs now, and my wrists are always sore, which is a good thing—kind of. Sometimes, I rub the cuffs to irritate the healing wounds, so I can escape out of my head. But then, I’m reminded that I’m losing control.

With shaking hands, I steer into the parking lot, and I can’t find a parking spot.

I’m gonna be fucking late to class.
Goddamn it! I can’t fucking do anything right.

With one hand still on the steering wheel, I use the other to rub the cuff into my sore skin. I grit my teeth when the pain radiates down my arm, but I welcome the sting as it clears my mind.

Finally, I spot someone pulling out, and I turn on my blinker to indicate I’m taking this spot. As I wait, I run a trembling hand through my hair, and when I pull my hand back, blood is seeping down my arm. My lips turn down as I stare at my arm in disgust.

I’m so fucking pathetic.

Reaching into the glove compartment, I pull out a few napkins, take off my cuff, and wipe my arm. Tears well up in my eyes and blur my vision. I’m cracking. I know it. I thought I could control this, but I can’t. I close my eyes and huff out a breath as I pinch my leg to stop my self-hatred from surfacing and dragging me down.

After I pull into the parking spot, I gather the bloody napkins and shove them into the glove box. Then, I put my cuff back on and get out of my car. Throwing my book bag over my shoulder and tucking my purse next to it, I rush into the building and to my class.

When I open the door, the classroom grows quiet, and Professor Wilson stops talking in what seems to be mid-sentence. My gut is a twisted mess because I hate fucking up. I smile in apology and start to make my way to my desk.

“Is there a reason you’re late to my class, Savannah?” he asks with pursed lips.

I freeze on the spot, and all the blood drains from my face.

Savannah.

His voice floods my head, and memories bombard my mind.

You’re my Savannah.

Savannah, you’re mine, and don’t you forget it.

God, can’t you do anything right, Savannah?

I need to run. I need to escape the memories and the emotions that are clogging my throat and squeezing my chest.

“Are you okay?” Professor Wilson asks as I stare at him with wide eyes.

His brow furrows, and then he opens his mouth to speak, but I turn and bolt out of the room. I’m sure I look like a total fucking nutcase as I’m sprinting through the halls and then the parking lot with my backpack smacking my back. The thud on my spine isn’t hard enough. My heart is racing, and tears are spilling from my eyes. I start to rub my wrist as I run, but it’s only an echo of what I need.

My Savannah.

Jesus Christ, you’re fucking useless, Savannah.