“It was a sick thing to do.” The adult me thought as I bandaged up the most recent cut on my arm. I tried for a moment to imagine just how sick it was as I picked out the non-stick bandage I had stored just for this occasion. I almost grasped the concept before I realized how comforted I felt by the process.
I took such care of the cuts—a daily inspection, hydrogen peroxide, re-bandaging. Maybe it was some small way to nurture myself. Turning the pain from the inside to the outside where I could see it and take care of it in a physical way. I was not comfortable with emotional pain. I wanted it OUT, and this was one way of doing it.
All of this thinking led me to remember my last cut. The one before the one I was bandaging. I sighed. When did it every change?
* * * * * * *
It had been the first time in a long time that I went to see BJ unescorted. I was excited and aglow at the prospect of having so much privacy. There was also a little element of danger, because I hadn’t trusted myself to go alone in so long. (Actually, it was mostly my partner who encouraged that, but I went along with it—not believing it to be truly necessary.)
The session with BJ hadn’t been too bad. Although BJ was concerned that a lot was going on with me and encouraged me to come in a second time that week. I decided to call later in the week instead and left feeling pretty much in control.
For some reason, though, by the time I got to the car, I was feeling less and less in control. In fact, I didn’t feel like driving at all and just waited in the car. Something about Sasifraz was bothering me, and I started to shake.
Then, a dawn of awareness came over me, and I heard Sasifraz’s voice. “You want to know the truth. I’ll tell you the truth.” As if he was twisting a knife inside of me, he told me a story I didn’t want to hear. It was a change of pace for him, but no less effective for it being his first time.
I’d been counseling with BJ about those weekends with my father. I’d been talking to BJ about Fern and the similarities between Fern and my mother. It amounted to a lot of discomfort for me. Because whatever it was, I was sure I didn’t want to know. It was characteristic of Sasifraz’s brilliance that he chose at this moment to tell me…
* * * * * * *
(I WOULD BE MORE THAN GLAD TO TELL YOU IT WAS A LIE. ANOTHER IN A SERIES OF UNBELIEVABLES. So, convince me. I DON’T KNOW HOW. I WISH I DID. I WISH I DID. I WISH I DID…)
(I WOULD BE MORE THAN GLAD TO TELL YOU IT WAS A LIE. ANOTHER IN A SERIES OF UNBELIEVABLES. So, convince me. I DON’T KNOW HOW. I WISH I DID. I WISH I DID. I WISH I DID…)
* * * * * * *
(Long emotional pause….)
(I COULD HAVE STOPPED RIGHT HERE. YOU KNOW. Yeah, so why didn’t you? WHY DIDN’T I? WHY? ‘CAUSE IF I DON’T FINISH, NO ONE WILL UNDERSTAND. Do you need them to? AT LEAST THIS MUCH. Good luck.)
(I COULD HAVE STOPPED RIGHT HERE. YOU KNOW. Yeah, so why didn’t you? WHY DIDN’T I? WHY? ‘CAUSE IF I DON’T FINISH, NO ONE WILL UNDERSTAND. Do you need them to? AT LEAST THIS MUCH. Good luck.)
* * * * * * *
(The delay continues….)
“There’s more to life than the spirits of a book, you know.”
The adult me had gotten horribly depressed working on my story with my counselor. It became such an inflamed blister that I just had to stop working.
Now, I was seeking aid from my ten-years-in-the-future-person—someone that I’d contemplated in the past and hesitantly written messages to. Because the ten-years-in-the-future-person had already gone through what I was going through. I thought I could get some helpful hints from her.
“I know.”
“So, enjoy those parts. Don’t get so bogged down. There is always much more going on than you can see. Live now.”
That was really all the ten-years-in-the-future-person had to say. I knew it was the wise thing to do, but I kept forgetting….
* * * * * * *
…So, the image projected and the story Sasifraz chose to tell me cut me to the quick (so to speak).
Sitting in the car I thought of Fern whispering in my ear—the stench of alcohol everywhere. “Go with it, Babe. Let it in.” My father pumping away inside of me. It was easy to diassociate myself from him and what he was doing. It was not an uncommon experience for me. But, Fern was the twist. Her words were the knife. “I’m with ya, Babe.” As if, somehow, I was supposed to trust her when everything she was doing was wrong.
The image dissolved, but the voice lingered. Sasifraz laughed, “You wanted to know, dear. Now, you do.”
I didn’t believe him, but the image would not shake—literally. I drove to a park. The image didn’t leave. I walked around. It was still there. I got in the car, but I couldn’t drive home.
“You can’t go home.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll never make it.” Suddenly, I could feel the car smashing into an abutment.
“Damn it, Sasifraz.”
“There’s only one way.”
“On your terms, I suppose.”
“You have to cut your arm before you can drive home.”
A shudder went through me. “Oh, thanks, what a deal.”
“It’s the only way.”
I knew I would try alternatives, but it didn’t look good.
* * * * * * *
The drive home was an hour and a half from Seattle to Olympia. I tried to call BJ locally and called Rahne long distance. BJ didn’t answer, and there wasn’t much Rahne could do. I didn’t want anyone to drive 70 miles to rescue me.
I cut my arm a half hour later and drove home in safety (if a bleeding arm is what you call safety.)
(I’M NOT CONVINCED. Me either.)