Daxton paused his questions as his notes became a little more in-depth, taking his time writing details down. I had to wonder how much he could tell about someone during his sessions. If he couldlook into someone's words and behaviors and get a glimpse of the person we all tried to hide from the outside world. That if in a part of all their training and schooling to help people figure out their troubles, they were trained to peel back the masks everyone wore, past the layers of tissue and sinew and glimpse what really lay beneath.
“Was that a normal habit of your mothers?”
“Hers and my dad both. Drinking, drugs, and fighting. I honestly don’t think they ever really wanted to have children. My sister and I spent more time with our grandmother than we ever did with them until we were old enough to take care of ourselves.”
“Did they ever talk to you about your self-harm?”
I had to think back; most of the memories from dealing with my parents had been buried and locked in that room deep in my mind so long ago it was hard to drag them back to the surface. They wanted to stay hidden where they were comfortable, waiting untouched. No amount of therapy would change what had happened in the past with my parents.
“No, they never really talked to me about it. Once they found out, my mother made me strip down on the days she was sober so she could inspect me for any new marks. After a while, either she didn’t care anymore or she started to forget, but it stopped after a few months. My grandmother never knew. Other than my mother dropping us off with her, they didn’t have a good relationship.”
“What about your sister?”
“My sister knew. She caught me one night when I forgot to lock my door.”
“How did she react?”
Tears threatened to fill my eyes no matter how hard I tried to choke them down. That night always brought up strong emotions. The memory of her coming into my room unannounced. Her entire purpose for coming in there was going to be to ask me if I wanted to watch a movie with her. Only when she saw the blood did she stop in the doorway. I can still remember how the hall light framed her silhouette. She had stood there frozen for only a heartbeat before she came to sit next to me on my bathroom floor. Even though she had started to cry, she never once fussed at me or yelled or took the blade away. Michelle only pulled me against her into an embrace so tight I feared it might crack my ribs. She stayed with me that night, bandaging my arm and stroking my hair once she had stopped crying. The entire night, we never talked about it; the words that could explain it didn’t need to be said aloud.
“She just continued to love me.” I didn’t feel like sharing the intimate details of how she discovered me or how she never begged me to stop. Michelle and I both had our ways of dealing with our trauma, both a form of self-harm. Whereas mine was more visible, hers was more psychological, using sex with strangers as her coping skill. When we were the only family each other had, it did no good to try to push each other away or force each other intotreatment. We simply loved each other to the best of our ability and learned how to accept one another for who we were, messy flaws and all.
His dark eyes searched mine, piercing through my gaze directly into what I hid behind my lack of an explanation. Could he tell what I was hiding, or was he only guessing? With the way he was looking at me, I could swear it felt like he was trying to read my mind, and if I had any disorder that paired with paranoia, I probably would have believed he could with how intense his gaze was.
“So how did you cope with it after your sister found you?”
“I wrote in my journal — a lot,” an afterthought I added on. Daxton made another note on his paper.
“Did that help you?”
“I found that I enjoyed writing, but yes, writing about it used to help. Michelle and I were basically alone growing up, so it was the only outlet I had.” He nodded in understanding.
“We usually recommend that patients keep a journal during their stay here. Writing has been proven to be an extremely helpful and healthy way to deal with stressful situations. How often did you write?”
“I’ve kept journals routinely since I started as a teenager, even up until recently, I’ve tried my best to keep up with the habit. I was actually trying to write something before you came to get me, the words just wouldn’t come.” Over the course of talking, I foundI wasn’t picking at the fringe as much; my hands had started to relax on top of the pillow instead of being so unsure of what to do.
“I’d like to see you continue to try, even if it’s just simple things, or even fictional stories. Writing is a really good way to help process what’s going on in our thoughts.”
I agreed, not to placate him but because I really did want to journal again. I missed it, filling blank pages with my thoughts, feeling productive and slightly less emotionally heavy after I let them all out on paper.
“Did you journal about your relationship with your ex-boyfriend?” He smoothly transitioned, bringing us from the past and into the present.
“Yes. When I say I’ve journaled about everything, I mean it. Even if I didn’t write every day, almost every detail of my life has been written down.”
“Were you able to manage the self-harm when you were with your ex? Or how did that dynamic work?”
Drawing a shallow breath, I decided it was best to rip the band-aid off. “I hadn’t done it in years before Craig and I got together, last year though I started back again. But I swear if anyone would just listen, I only ever cut my left arm, I’m right-handed, I never could manage it well with my left hand.” Grabbing my long sleeve, I yanked it up to my elbow to show him the skin riddled with scars, the skin still visibly puckered beneath my tattoos. The ones on that arm would be nothing compared to the damage done onmy right. When the dressing came off and I was able to view the damage that had been done, it made me physically ill. Those scars would be deep and probably never fade.
“Did Craig ever see your scars? I’m wondering if you ever felt like you had to hide them or if he was accepting and non-judgmental.”
The thought of Craig and me being sexually active, and how he first saw my scars, made my stomach turn and twist itself into knots. Sure, we had been at one point, but after finding out where he preferred to put his dick, I found the thought that I had ever let him touch me repulsive. If I could have burned away every place he had ever laid hands on me, I would have. Nothing cleansed that feeling away.
“Yes, he did, he knew all about my past. Which is why I keep telling everyone he made it look this way on purpose,” my tone was starting to get irritated, even though Daxton wasn’t the source or even who I was trying to direct it at. He kept his calm, though, his gentle demeanor never faltering as he continued talking and making notes. “At first, he was loving, accepting even, he said they didn’t bother him.”
“I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” I continued, “as time went on, it became a weapon he could use against me.”
“How did he react when he found out you had been doing it again?”
