My younger self stood looking in the mirror. The pressures inside were enormous. I had to do it. I must. I wanted to, but I was scared. I couldn’t separate the pressures that were Sasifraz, the Bad, and me. I didn’t know where each began and the other ended.
Finally, my heart was steel. Jaw clenched, I moved in mechanical motions and prepared for the ritual. Poised and ready, at the crucial moment, I blanked out. As if in instant replay, I awoke again with a cut too deep to heal itself and with the sure knowledge that a process I had set in motion long ago was going to roll along with me whether I wanted it to or not.
* * * * * * *
In rapid fire, perhaps what should have happened the first time, happened the second time. I told my counselor the next day. Kantor had the nurse look at it. The nurse pronounced that it needed stitches. The Parent was called. The Parent made an appointment with my pediatrician and picked me up from school.
Now, my fate was sealed. The Otherside was in on the adventure. I gripped the seat tightly to hold on for the ride.
* * * * * * *
The doctor expressed dismay at not being informed of the problem earlier. The Parent insisted that I had low blood sugar and that was the reason for my erratic behavior. The doctor scheduled a test which came back negative. The Parent didn’t believe the test results and resolved to check my arm on a daily basis.
As a sidebar, the Parent started sleeping with me in an attempt to keep a closer eye on me. Thus, the problem was dealt with swiftly but ineffectively by curing symptoms and not causes.