“Repeat after me.”
“REPEAT AFTER ME.”
“Joceile…”
“JOCEILE…”
“You are important enough…”
“I AM IMPORTANT ENOUGH…”
“That you can do whatever you need to do…”
“THAT I CAN DO WHATEVER I NEED TO DO…”
“Without feeling suicidal.”
“WITHOUT FEELING SUICIDAL.”
* * * * * * *
The adult me was feeling overwhelmed in my life. I realized that I waited until I wanted to cut my arm before I would give myself permission to do what I really wanted to do. Usually, it was to take time out, or just STOP whatever I was doing.
My wisdom part was helping me out.
* * * * * * *
Blood. I wondered why I liked to cut my arm so much. It had to do with blood—the next bit of revelation. Blood usually gets people’s attention. But, there was one time it didn’t…
I was trying to tell BJ another story that I’d remembered. But, the only way I could tell the story was to pretend that it happened to someone else.
“There was a little girl.” With my finger, I traced the pattern of a fictitious girl’s name in the rug.
(MAN, I PUT THIS OFF FOR DAYS. I noticed. AND THAT BJ GOING ON VACATION. Shocking. OH, TO BE DONE WITH IT. Patience, dear. Patience.)
I stuttered like I did when I told hard stories. “Her…her Dad…r-raped her…”
(I HATE THIS. I know. Keep writing.)
“…and one time he hurt her so bad…”
(I’M THROWING UP. Good for you.)
“….that she started bleeding. She thought for sure her Mom would know what happened. But, it was one of those unfortunate timing of events… Her mother thought she started her period at eleven and bought her a menstrual belt and pads. The girl knew that wasn’t what was wrong, but she didn’t say anything. So, no one knew.” (Except her father, of course.)
I looked up at BJ. “I think I read a story somewhere. Have you ever read a story like that?”
“No,” BJ responded.
“Maybe, I didn’t. I don’t know. But, I can remember at twelve looking at my menstrual belt and wishing and wishing my period would start. I never could remember why. I just remember getting it out of the drawer and staring at it. Maybe, I wanted it to start for real and erase the memory of that first bleeding.”
(MAYBE, I DID…AND IT WORKED.)
* * * * * * *
(SO NOW, SASIFRAZ WOULD STAB ME IN THE BACK IF HE COULD. Why? FOR MAKING UP OUTRAGEOUS STORIES. And, did you? I DON’T KNOW, BUT I’LL TELL YOU… Yes? I AM TIRED OF BEING BEATEN BY A MAN I CAN’T SEE, SHOULDN’T HEAR, AND DON’T DESERVE PAIN FROM. Getting uppity in your old age, eh? YOU GOT IT, SLICK.)