Bright Purple: Color Me Confused with Bonus Content (25 page)

The question is, can I really last that long? Every single day I tell
myself I’m not going to do this again. I’m not going to give in one more time. And some days I actually succeed. But on other days, like today, it is impossible. The tightness inside my chest is painful right now. And I wonder if a fairly healthy sixteen-year-old can have a heart attack or maybe a stroke. Maybe that would be the answer.

For no particular reason, other than habit, I turn on the tap water and let it just run into the sink. It’s how I usually do this thing. Maybe I figure the sound will camouflage what’s really going on in here. I don’t know. Maybe the swooshing sound relaxes me. Or maybe it’s comforting to watch the water flow. Like, there’s something that still works. But I just stand there and watch it running down the sink. I don’t wash my hands or brush my teeth or wash my face. I simply stand there, hands planted on either side of the sink, as I lean forward and stare at the water flowing from the faucet and going down the drain. I’m sure my dad would think this was not only incredibly stupid but very wasteful. I’m sure if I were ever caught, I would get a sharp-tongued lecture on just how much he pays for the water and electric bill every month and how selfish and ignorant I am. Normally, I do try to be frugal and respectful of his “hard-earned” money, but there are times, like now, when I just don’t care.

I don’t know how long I stand there wasting valuable water, but finally I turn off the faucet and take a deep breath. I wish I could stop this thing, but I still ache inside. Instead of diminishing, the pain only seems to grow, pushing against my insides until I don’t see how I can possibly contain it anymore.

I open the bottom drawer on my side of the bathroom cabinet. It’s where I keep my “feminine” products — a place I can be certain that my dad or brother would never go looking. As for my mother, well, she would never think to go looking for anything of mine in
the first place. She can hardly find her slippers in the morning.

I take out a box of tampons and turn it over. A sliver of silver glints from where the cardboard overlaps on the bottom. I carefully slide out the blade and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s an old-fashioned, two-sided kind of blade. I swiped one from Caleb when he first started shaving with my grandpa’s old brass razor set. It didn’t take my little brother very long to realize that there are better shaving instruments available, so he never notices when a blade goes missing from the little cardboard box in the back of his drawer. Not that I’ve had to replace many blades during these past six months. As long as you wash and dry them and keep them in a safe place, they can last quite a while.

At first I thought I would limit my cutting to my left arm. But after a few weeks, I started running out of places to cut. And that’s when I realized I’m fairly coordinated when it comes to cutting with my left hand. My right arm has a series of evenly spaced stripes to prove this. I push up the sleeve of my shirt and examine the stripes with regular interest, running my fingers over the ones that are healed, barely touching the ones that are still healing. Each one could tell its own story. Okay, the stories would be pretty similar, but each scar is unique. The most recent cut was only two days ago. It’s still pretty sore, but at least it’s not infected.

Already I am beginning to feel relief. I have no idea why. But it’s always like this. Just the security of holding the blade in my hand, just knowing that I am in control now . . . it’s almost enough. But not quite.

I lower the blade to the pale skin on the inside of my arm, and using a sharp corner of the blade, I quickly make a two-inch slash. I know not to go too deep. And when I’m in control, like now, I can do it just right. And just like that, I’m done. I hardly feel the pain of
the cut at all. It’s like it doesn’t even hurt.

I watch with familiar fascination as the blood oozes out in a clean, straight line. There is something reassuring about seeing my bright-red blood exposed like this. It’s like this sign that I’m still alive and, weird as it sounds, that someday everything will be okay. Although the euphoria that follows the cutting never lasts as long as I wish it would, it’s a quick fix that mostly works.

As usual, I feel better as I press a wad of toilet paper onto the wound. For the moment, this cut absorbs all my attention and emotional energy. It blocks out what I am unable to deal with. And for a while I am convinced that I will actually survive my life.

And, hey, this isn’t as bad as doing drugs, like some kids do. Or getting drunk, like my dad is doing right now. Or just checking out, like my mom did last year and continues to do on an off-and-on basis.

Am I proud of my behavior? Of course not. But for the time being, it’s all I have to keep me from falling. So don’t judge me.