Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (20 page)

"I know just what you mean," says Charisa. "I'm exactly like
that with my music too. I hate when someone in my family says
something about it. It makes me want to smash my guitar ... or,
well, you know, cut. . . "

And suddenly we're all talking. We're worried about whether
we'll be able to continue with our replacement habits once we go
home. What if we fail? What if we fall back into the old patterns?
But as we talk, we also manage to encourage each other, and some
girls make suggestions for others. We talk about how we need to
surround ourselves with friends who support and encourage Lis,
people who understand that we need a replacement habit to keep
the old one away.

Finally, we come up with the catchphrase "Don't kill the cat,"
which means, keep your replacement habit alive and well.

That evening I find a sketch pad and package of sketching
pencils sitting on my bed, and I put them to good use doing a caricature of a grinning feline with a mouse under her paw. The caption
is "Don't kill the cat." Cassie likes it so much that she shows it to
Nicole, who, with my permission, makes photocopies of it for the
other girls. And they actually ask me to autograph them, like I'm
famous. Ha-ha. Although I admit, it feels pretty good.

By the end of the second week, I'm feeling stronger. Oh sure, the
urge to cut is still there, but it's not constant now. The group therapy
sessions can be aggravating at times. And sometimes they even feel fairly redundant. But just the same, I have to admit they're helping.
I guess some things have to be pounded into you before you really
believe it.

Sketching has become my main replacement habit-my cat.
That and deep breathing. Also, Nicole teaches a class in yoga
stretches and relaxation techniques, and I find myself actually using
these at times too. Still, I'm not sure that all this is enough. I still
get frightened, like, what if I go back to cutting again, or what if I'm
incurable? I know there are no guarantees. Sometimes, like when
I start worrying about my family and obsessing about what's going
to happen to me when I get out of here, the temptation to cut is as
strong as ever.

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward real
healing," Nicole is saying for like the umpteenth time. And I think
I've mostly gotten this. I mean, I do talk fairly openly about my
problem now, and I don't pretend like I don't belong in Promise
House anymore, and everyone here knows without a doubt that I'm
a cutter. But I still feel like I'm holding back a little.

For one thing, I still keep my arms covered up. Partly because
I'm ashamed, and partly because I don't want to see my ugly scars.
I don't want to be reminded of my own stupidity. Other girls go
around in tank tops, and some of their scars are way worse than
mine. But its like they're okay with it. Like they don't need to hide
it anymore. I'm not there yet.

On my fifteenth day, I decide it's time to take another step. So I
go to the health room and ask Juanita if I can borrow some scissors.
She gives me a serious questioning look that seems to say, Yeal1, sure.
I'm going to give a cutter a sharp object, you bet.

"To cut the sleeves off some of my shirts," I explain. "All I
brought with me were these long sleeves and I-"

"Oh, yes. Of course." She reaches into a drawer and hands me
some scissors. "But only shirts, Ruth."

I kind of laugh, but to be perfectly honest, as I carry the
stainless-steel scissors upstairs, I do wonder what it would feel like
to cut again. Oh, I know I'm not really going to do it. Not right now
anyway. But the truth is, I wonder. And it bugs me that I would feel
this way, that my brain still insists on going back there, even after
two weeks without it. Man, I wish I could wipe that part of my
brain clean.

I use the scissors to make a couple shirts short-sleeved and
several others entirely sleeveless. It's not much, but it's a start. Then
I actually put on one of the sleeveless tops and go downstairs to
return the scissors. "See," I tell Juanita, holding up my scarred but
not bleeding arms.

"Good girl."

Okay, I have to admit this is really, really hard at first. I cannot
stand to look at my arms. They make me feel sick inside-like I'm
such a stupid loser. Oh sure, this is a good visual reminder of why
I never want to go back to cutting. But the scars are so ugly. So
freaking ugly. Sometimes I look down and see them, and I get really
angry at myself for ever doing this in the first place. I get so angry
that I actually want to hurt myself. But that's when I remember I can
do something else. I can sketch. I can breathe. I can do a little yoga.
Or, better yet, I can talk to someone.

It really helps having these other girls around me, girls who've
been to the same dark places, girls who understand the pain. But I
still wish more than anything that I'd never done it at all. And I still
call myself "stupid" every time I see my scars.

"Shut off the internal bashing," Nicole warns us again and again.
"You're all doing it," she says as she points her finger at our small group. "You call yourself names. You lay on guilt trips, you take the
blame for everything." Then she points at me. "Right now, Ruth,
what is the name you most often call yourself?"

"Stupid," I say without even thinking.

"Well, it's a lie!" she practically shouts. "What do you guys
think? Is Ruth stupid?"

"Sometimes she is," says Alexi with a mean grin.

"She's smart," says Jessica.

"She's intelligent," says Cassie. "I bet her IQ is really high."

"See," says Nicole. "You are not stupid. That's just a label someone else gave you. It's not the truth. What are some of the other
labels you girls have given yourselves?"

And so we go around some more. Girls confess what they tell
themselves, their inner dialogue, and we in turn refute it. We tell
them its a lie, we tell them what we see as the truth.

The Bible says, You shall know the truth," Nicole eventually
says, as she writes this sentence on the whiteboard: "And the truth
shall set you free. "

Okay, by now I know that Nicole is a Christian. But she doesn't
shove her religion down anyone's throat. It's like it's just a part of who
she is. For whatever reason, it works for her. My roommate, Cassie,
is also a Christian. And although I really like her and she's a sweet
and caring person, I do get a little tired of her trying to "save me."

"I don't need that," I've told her over and over. "I mean, its fine
for you and Nicole and some of the other girls. But I personally
don't need it. Okay?"

"How can you not need God?" she persists. "Everyone needs
God. Maybe you just don't understand that yet. But you will, Ruth.
Someday you will."

"Maybe someday. But not today. Okay?" I usually turn back to my sketch, hoping she'll take the hint.

"Well, I'm going to keep praying for you," she says, like it's a
big warning.

"Whatever trips your trigger," I toss back.

But here's the truth: I am beginning to wonder if the Christians
might be onto something. It's like I can see this difference between
the girls who are taking God seriously and the ones like me, who are
not. And it's the ones who are taking God seriously, like Cassie, who
seem to be making better progress. It's like they have some kind of
inner strength that the rest of us are missing. I wish I was imagining
this whole thing, but I'm afraid I am not.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not really sure what my problem with
God is. It's possible that since I've heard God called "the Father" that
I'm thinking he may be just like my dad. And that's pretty freaky. I
mean, what if he's angry at me too? I just cannot deal with any more
anger or disapproval, especially from someone as big as God. I don't
need it.

And yet I find myself thinking about God a lot, and I'm wondering if Cassie is right. Maybe I am missing something. I suppose this
all has something to do with the The Cutter's Twelve Steps, a paper
that Nicole gave each of us to read and study daily.

I've read these steps once a day since I've been here. But I have
to admit that I feel slightly stumped when I come to the steps that
include "a Higher Power." Unfortunately, most of the Twelve Steps
are based on this.

1. We admit we are powerless over our illness of self-mutilation
and cutting.

2. We believe that a Higher Power can restore us to wellness.

3. We make a choice to turn our will and our lives over to the
care of our Higher Power, to help us to rebuild our lives in a
positive and caring way.

4. We make an honest and fearless personal inventory of
ourselves.

5. We admit to our Higher Power, to ourselves, and to others, the
exact nature of our weaknesses and our strengths.

6. Ve are willing to have our Higher Power remove all our
weaknesses.

7. We humbly ask our Higher Power to remove our weaknesses
and to strengthen and heal us.

8. We make a list of anyone we have hurt by hurting ourselves,
and we make a plan to make amends.

9. We make direct amends to such people wherever possible,
except when to do so would injure them or others or ourselves.

10. We continue to take personal inventory, and when we blow it,
we admit it, while we continue to recognize our progress.

11. We seek, through prayer and meditation, to improve our
conscious contact with our Higher Power, praying to know our
I ligher Power's will for us and for the power to carry it out.

12. When we have experienced a spiritual awakening as a result of
these steps, we carry this message to others who cut or mutilate
and commit ourselves to a life of wholeness and healing.

" 1 personally don't think anyone can successfully stop cutting
on her own," Nicole has told us on a regular basis. "At least I don't
know of anyone who has. I really believe that you need a supernatural kind of help. Something beyond what you can pull out of
yourself. So don't be afraid to ask God for help. He's ready to give it."

So, once more I am reading the Twelve Steps. And I realize I haven't really made it much further than the first step. That's probably because the very next step involves this Higher Power thing. So
I'm trying to become more open to it. For the first time in my life, I
am trying to take God more seriously. I just hope that he's not road
at me for messing up so badly in the first place.

BY THE END OF MY THIRD WEEK, I FEEL STUCK. LIKE I CAN'T GO FORWARD AND
I don't want to go back. I schedule a private counseling session with
Nicole for Friday afternoon.

"What's up, Ruth?" She leans back in the chair behind her desk.

"I'm stuck."

She sits up straight now. "What do you mean, stuck?"

"I think it has to do with the Twelve Steps," I tell her. "I can do
some of them, but I get stuck on the others."

She nods like she knows what I mean. "The ones that involve a
Higher Power?"

"Yeah."

"Do you believe in God, Ruth?"

"Yeah. I guess I do."

"Do you have a relationship with him?"

"A relationship?"

"Like, do you talk to him? Do you pray?"

I shake my head. "My family used to go to church when I was
little. Mostly because my mom wanted to. Then we stopped. I guess
I just never gave God much thought."

"What do you think God thinks of you?"

I shrug. "Not much, I guess."

"That's where you're wrong, Ruth. God loves you. I mean he
totally loves you. So much that he poured himself into a human
being-his Son, Jesus-and actually died for you."

"I know a little about Jesus," I tell her. "I've heard how he died
on a cross, but I have to admit that I don't really get that. I mean,
it seems so archaic and brutal, so barbaric. Like something that
happened when people were less civilized and lived so differently
from now. You know. Like it's not really relevant today"

She kind of smiles now. "Like physical pain and suffering isn't
relevant, Ruth?"

I'm not sure what she means and so I just wait.

"Why did you cut yourself?"

I'm wondering if this is a trick question now. But all I can do is
tell the truth. "To make the pain go away."

"Did it?"

"For a while ... you know how it is."

"But do you wonder why you had this need to hurt yourself, to
make yourself bleed, to inflict pain and suffering?"

I nod. "Yeah, I guess I sort of do."

"Does it seem barbaric, archaic, brutal?"

Suddenly it's like this tiny light comes on, and I actually feel
goose bumps on my arms, right on top of the scars. "What exactly
do you mean?"

"You've seen the poster that's in all the bedrooms," she says to me.
"By his stripes you are healed.' Do you know what that means?"

I shake my head.

"It's from the Bible," she says. "It's referring to Jesus' stripes. He
was whipped thirty-nine times across the back. Enough to kill a man.
He was bloody and beaten. And that was only the beginning."