Scars

by Cheryl Rainfield

  “Our sessions are confidential; you know that,” Carolyn says. “Everything you say here goes no further.”

  “Even though they’re paying you?”

  “Even though they’re paying me. The only time I would have to break confidentiality is if I thought you were a danger to yourself or to others.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Define danger.”

  Carolyn’s eyes become watchful. “Well, if you were seriously thinking of killing yourself, for example. Or of chasing after your abuser with a gun.”

  “I would never do that!” I laugh.

  “Or if you tried to hurt yourself.”

  “What do you mean, hurt myself? People hurt themselves all the time—smoking when they know it causes cancer, starving themselves to get thin, pushing people away because they’re too scared to get close … . ”

  Carolyn nods. “Those are all forms of hurting oneself—especially anorexia. If I suspected you had an eating disorder, I’d have an obligation to tell your parents, since it can be life–threatening. But I was thinking more along the lines of cutting, burning, head banging, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, and then you’d have to tell my parents, huh? Therapist-client confidentiality just goes out the window?” I know I should shut up; I know I’m just making things worse, but I can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out of me.

  Shadows flick through my brain. “Everyone will betray you,” his voice whispers. “Everyone but me.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Kendra?”

  “No, there is not!” I stand up. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving. Getting out of here.”

  “Our session isn’t up.”

  I walk to the door. “It is now.”

  31

  Carolyn gets up faster than I’ve ever seen her move before. “Kendra, I know you’re upset, I know you’re scared— but don’t walk away. I want to help you.”

  “How?” I shout. “By telling my parents? By messing up my whole life?”

  “Kendra, how have you hurt yourself?”

  This is unraveling too fast. Just two days ago, no one even knew about my cutting. Now too many people know—or suspect. I feel like I’m backed up against a wall, hemmed in on all sides. I tense up, ready to run. “What makes you think I’ve hurt myself?” I ask.

  “By how strongly you reacted,” Carolyn says softly. “So what have you done?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I care about you, and I don’t want to see you hurting this badly. You don’t deserve the anger you’re turning on yourself. Your abuser’s the one who does.”

  I look down at my shoes. “That’s kind of what Meghan said.”

  “She was right.” Carolyn takes a step toward me and holds out her hand—the same one she’s placed on my shoulder when I’m going through memories, to help bring me back; the hand that’s held mine and helped me feel safe. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve done?”

  “Who says I’ve done anything?”

  “I think you’ve told me in a hundred different ways today. I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up on it sooner.”

  “This is not your fault! It’s not anyone’s fault!” I’m crying now. “No one gets it. Cutting helps me! It really does!”

  “Cutting,” Carolyn says softly. She takes a step closer, and I let her. “How does it help you?”

  “It takes away the pain when I can’t stand it any more. It helps me breathe. Helps me think.” I glance at Carolyn. She’s not freaking out, just looking sad. I rub my arm. “It stops the memories when nothing else will. And they’ve been bad lately. Really bad. I almost saw his face, Carolyn. And I can’t let that happen. He’ll kill me if I do.”

  “Oh, honey.” Carolyn closes the distance between us and puts her arms around me, and I let her.

  I feel so safe in her arms, like nothing can hurt me.

  “He won’t kill you. That’s something he told you to keep you quiet. It’s a common threat that pedophiles use.”

  “I don’t think he’s a regular pedophile,” I say, looking up at her. “He wrote that note. And then he sent an MP3 telling me to keep silent—but his voice was wonky, digitized like a computer’s. And then he sent me a package.”

  Carolyn’s arms tighten around me.

  “And he’s been following me again.”

  “He’s really trying to intimidate you.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s working!”

  “I know it’s frightening,” Carolyn says. “That’s what he wants. He wants to scare you so much that you’ll never reveal his name.”

  “There’s something else,” I say. I pull away. “He’s the one who taught me to cut.”

  “He taught you?”

  I tell her fast, the words jumbling over each other. “But I’ve been thinking about it. There’s no way of knowing whether I’d have turned to cutting on my own if he hadn’t taught me to. I could have; it does help me cope. So maybe I’m not just doing what he wants me to. Maybe I’m doing what I need to do.”

  “It’s frightening to think he had that much control over you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I shudder.

  “And as you said, there’s no way to know. It sounds like it’s very painful for you to even consider. But I think his teaching you must have predisposed you to cutting.”

  I bite my lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All right. We’ll leave it for now. But will you let me see where you cut?”

  “Why?” I take a step back.

  “Because I care. And I’m concerned. I want to see it for myself.”

  “All right, all right.” This is becoming a whole routine. I turn away, roll up my sleeve and unwind the gauze. I hesitate a moment, then tear the pads off. Then I turn back around so she can see.

  Carolyn draws in her breath sharply. “Those should have had stitches.”

  “Why?” I look at them. “It’s not like I was going to bleed to death.”

  “Because you cut so deep, Kendra. And you are playing with death. Every time you cut yourself, every time you bleed, you’re cutting through a vein.”

  “I’ve been cutting for six months, now—six months— and it’s been okay!”

  “Six months?” Carolyn blows out her breath. “That’s a long time. I wish I’d known sooner. But Kendra—you are taking a chance. Cut through an artery or a major vein, and you could bleed to death before you could even call for help.”

  I clench my fists. I don’t care! Nothing else makes the pain go away. Nothing else stops the shadows.

  “You don’t want to hear that, do you?”

  “No!” Because I need cutting. I need it so bad. I can’t look at her.

  “I know you probably can’t stop just like that.” Carolyn snaps her fingers. “And I’m not asking you to; it’s been helping you cope.”

  I look into her kind, worried eyes. She’s on my side; I know she is.

  “I just want you to try to do other things instead, if you can. Your body’s been through so much abuse; it doesn’t deserve to be punished more. You don’t deserve this abuse, this repeated threat to your life.”

  I nod slowly. I don’t want to die. But I don’t know how to give up cutting, either.

  “What did you use to do this?”

  “A utility knife. Well, the blade from one.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “How did you know I had it on me?”

  “I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected. Come on, Kendra. What can it hurt?”

  I bend down and dig the blade out of my sock, then give it to her, my hand shaking. If she tries to take it away, I’ll just buy another one or I’ll find something else, anything that will cut with precision. I’m not going to stop cutting. I can’t.

  “Do you wash this before you use it?”

  “No.”

  Carolyn hands the blade back to me.

 
; I tuck it back into my sock, trying not to feel so exposed, trying not to feel the shame that’s heating my face.

  “I want you to wash the blade with soap and water beforehand. Wash your arm, too, if you think you’re going to cut—if you absolutely can’t avoid it.” She goes back to looking at my arm, gently turning it over. Her fingers are cool and reassuring against my hot skin. “These look infected. Did you put anything on them?”

  “I poured some hydrogen peroxide on it yesterday.”

  “Hydrogen peroxide is good.” Carolyn walks over to her bookshelf and pulls out a first aid kit, then brings it back to the couch. She sits down and motions for me to sit beside her. I do.

  Carolyn takes out a tube and unscrews the cap. “You can also put anti-bacterial ointment on your wounds; it’ll prevent infection.” She globs some on my arm, spreading it lightly and holding her breath like she doesn’t want to hurt me. “I want you to put some of this on every day, all right?”

  “Okay.” Somehow, I don’t mind her telling me what to do. Part of me even likes it. It feels like something a good mom might do.

  Carolyn screws the cap back on the tube and hands it to me. “I’m taking this seriously, Kendra, because it is serious. I want you safe. I want you to stay alive. And I don’t want to see you hurt any more. You’ve been hurt too much already.”

  I stare down at my hands. She sounds so worried— so unhappy. I need the cutting—need it to get me through the pain. But some of the comfort’s gone, now that I feel her worry for me—and her fear.

  “We’re going to work on some things you can do instead of hurting yourself—distraction, self-soothing, expressing your feelings. And if memories come flooding in on you, I want you to tell me, okay? We need to help you close them down when you’re not here in session with me so you don’t feel such a need to cut.”

  I nod.

  Carolyn pats my knee. “I’m so glad you told me. Just remember that you can call me any time. We can talk things through. I’d rather you do that than cut.” Carolyn picks up one of her business cards, and writes on it. “This is my cell. I don’t give it to everyone. But I want you to use it if you think you’re going to cut.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, of course not. I’m a little sad that you felt you needed to do this. And I’m sad that I didn’t see it sooner. But I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me now.”

  “Are you going to have to tell my parents?”

  “You know I will.”

  I rub my hands on my jeans. “When—?”

  “As soon as you leave.”

  “But you won’t tell them anything else, right?” I say. “You won’t tell them about my memories or the MP3 player or anything else?”

  “Absolutely not. The only thing I’ll share with them is your self-harm. I’m legally and morally bound to tell them about it. But I promise, I will not share anything else.”

  I pinch the inside of my hand, trying not to cry.

  “It’ll be all right, Kendra. It’ll work itself out.”

  But I don’t know how it can.

  32

  I pass people on the way to school, but I don’t really see them. I don’t see anything except Carolyn’s worried face. Right now, she’s probably dialing my parents’ number, telling them my secret.

  I want to run back to her office and snatch the phone from her, beg her not to call. But I know I can’t do that, so I just keep walking.

  Everything is getting so messed up. I wish I could start the morning over, but it’s too late to change it now. At least I’ll see Meghan soon. And Mrs. Archer, too. I need to see their friendly faces, need to know they care.

  I run my fingers along the rough brick of a building, letting it scrape my skin, drawing blood. The stinging pain only irritates me; it doesn’t soothe me the way cutting does. I don’t know why everyone thinks cutting is such a big deal. It’s not like I’m running around hurting anyone else.

  An empty ginger ale can lies in the gutter. I know that if I have to, I can tear it apart and use it to cut … .

  “Kendra!” A car pulls up beside me.

  I freeze, my heart clenching. Why didn’t I stay alert to my surroundings? I shake myself and start to run.

  “Kendra!” I swear I hear Mom’s voice.

  I stop and turn around. Mom’s leaning out the car window, her cheeks wet with tears. Dad’s sitting stiffly beside her at the wheel. I walk slowly to the car.

  Dad leans across Mom to look at me. “Get in the car, Kendra,” he says in a jagged voice.

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “We’re going to Carolyn’s, all three of us.”

  It’s quiet in the car—too quiet. I can hear every sniffle Mom makes, every grunt of Dad’s breath. I can’t believe this is happening so fast, can’t believe we’re heading right back to Carolyn’s.

  I know from the way Mom’s trying not to cry and the way Dad’s avoiding my gaze that they know about the cutting. I feel hot with shame and dirty somehow, like I’ve done something wrong. And I have. I’ve hurt them.

  My head gets light. I float up and out of myself and look down at our car, on all three of us, sitting in silence. It’s so familiar, this drifting outside of myself. I know I’ve done it before; I’ve done it often.

  I follow my parents into the building, all of us locked in our own tomb-like hush. The silence pushes up beneath my skin and I scream inside—but nothing comes out. Fear grows like ice inside me, splintering into my heart.

  Carolyn opens her door; her gaze finds mine, and I feel myself come back to my body just a little. A tiny spot of warmth spreads through my ice-cold stomach.

  Dad sits at one end of the couch; Mom sits at the other, taking my regular spot. I want to tip the couch over, to shove them right out of the office. They don’t belong here, with their heavy sighs and stilted voices. They’re invading this space that used to be mine—mine and Carolyn’s.

  Dad pats the cushion beside him, and I sit where they expect me to—imprisoned by Mom on one side and Dad on the other. I draw myself in tight, but Dad’s knee still bumps into mine and Mom squeezes my hand.

  “I don’t understand why this has happened,” Mom says, looking at Carolyn.

  I roll my eyes. Isn’t it obvious?

  Dad draws himself upright. “What I want to know is how long you’ve known that Kendra was cutting herself. Did you know from the beginning?”

  “No,” Carolyn says, “I just found out today. That’s why I called you.”

  “And we appreciate that. But I guess you’ll understand when we tell you that we’re taking her elsewhere.”

  I jerk back like he’s slapped me. “That’s not fair! It’s not Carolyn’s fault. I kept it a secret from everyone. She’s the one who got me to talk.”

  “It’s too little, too late, Kendra. I know it’ll be hard to adjust to someone new, but I want what’s best for you. And right now, Carolyn isn’t it.”

  There’s something wrong with his voice, something wrong with his words. But I can’t figure out what, can’t hold the thoughts still in my head.

  “I understand this is hard for you, Mr. Marshall,” Carolyn says. “It must’ve been quite a shock. But I don’t think changing therapists right now will help Kendra.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your clients,” Dad snaps. “Just tell me why I should continue to pay you to see my daughter, when she was cutting herself to pieces right under your nose.”

  Mom lets out a muffled sob.

  I want to cry out with her. I never meant to hurt her. I never meant to hurt anyone at all. And now I’ve hurt so many people. I bite down hard on my lip. If only I hadn’t told Carolyn … . If only I hadn’t let her see.

  “Kendra wasn’t harming herself in our sessions,” Carolyn says slowly. “And there is control in the act.” She hands a box of tissues to my mom. “I don’t think it’s helpful for us to keep going over what has or hasn’t been done; I think what we need to look at right
now is how we can support Kendra.”

  “That’s my priority, too,” Dad says. “I just don’t think this therapy is working for her. Look at what she’s been doing!”

  “I can understand your concern,” Carolyn leans forward. “But her behavior is not an indication that she’s getting worse. It’s merely a symptom of her distress.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says, crumpling the tissues in her fist. “I don’t understand.”

  “Self-injury shows the depth of pain and turmoil someone is feeling. Now, I know you’ll want her to stop hurting herself right away. But a more realistic hope is that Kendra will learn some new coping skills, and, in time, find the tools and strategies she needs to safely express her emotions instead of cutting. I feel certain that Kendra can do this. She’s very strong.”

  But I don’t feel like I am.

  “She is strong,” Dad says, his voice choking up. “We know that. But she’s been through so much; I want to make sure that we’re doing the right thing. That we’re not harming her more.”

  “Therapy helps me, Dad.”

  He turns to me. “I’m not convinced. Don’t you think it’s odd that you didn’t cut until you entered therapy? Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Therapy doesn’t have anything to do with my cutting! Therapy’s what’s kept me alive. And Carolyn.”

  “What are you saying, Kendra?” Dad asks, his face tightening into a frightened mask. “You’ve been thinking about suicide?”

  Mom gasps beside me.

  I don’t know how we got here. I never meant to tell them any of this. I can hear Mom’s labored breathing, and feel the tension in Dad. I shift on the sofa and pull myself further inward. “Yes, I was thinking about it— before therapy. But that’s what I’m saying. Carolyn’s helped me want to live, and I’m past that now. And isn’t it better that I cut myself than kill myself?”

  “Oh, my God,” Mom says.

  Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “You were thinking about killing yourself,” he says softly.

  I look at Carolyn, silently begging her to help me.