The Function to Breathe

Nineteen

2015

The next morning Ricky wakes me with kisses and then makes love to me again. I can't think of a more wonderful way to start the day.

Afterwards, with the winter sun creeping through the bedroom window we lay in bed lazily exploring each other's bodies, seeing what reaction a touch or a kiss in different places gets. I have always been ticklish and still am much to Ricky's delight; the grin on his face when he realised this lets me know that he'll be storing that knowledge away for the future. After a lot of squirming and giggling I end up lying on my back with him leaning over me, my arms pinned to the pillow above my head by his hands. He looks down at me, his eyes once again sweeping my body as they had done last night, making my breath quicken and the blood in my veins fizz in anticipation.

Suddenly he stops, staring at me with a slight frown on his face. "Cat, what's this?" He asks softly.

His thumb is stroking over the inside of my left wrist, over the jagged white scar that's usually partly hidden by my watch strap. There's another on my right wrist, slightly smaller and fainter, not quite as easily visible. I don't know if he's noticed that one yet. My breath catches in my throat and I try to pull my hand away, but Ricky holds it fast against the pillow. I turn my head away, I don't want to do this now; I'm not ready. I know I'll have to tell him some time, I just want that time to be when I choose; when I am ready.

"Cat," he says my name again, softer still, "how did you get this scar?"

"Let me go," I whisper, pulling my hand away as he releases it. I cradle my left hand to my chest, holding it with the right, as if it's only just been injured and I'm trying to stop it hurting.

I can feel anxiety building inside me at the thought of having to explain what happened; what I did. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and then slowly letting it out again; calming myself in the way I've been taught. It helps a bit, but I still wish I didn't have to do this. I wish I hadn't done the thing that needs to be explained. "Promise you won't be angry if I tell you?"

Ricky nods rather hesitantly, leaning over me to brush my hair back from my face and then kiss me gently. I think deep down he already knows – or at least has a good idea – what I'm going to say. There aren't many ways you're likely to end up with scars on the inside of both your wrists.

I sit up, gather the bedclothes around myself and try to look at him but I can't. I have to focus on a loose thread on the edge of the duvet cover, pulling at it as I speak. "When I had the breakdown I tried to kill myself. I... um... I slit my wrists."

I hear his breath catch in his throat and I force myself to look at him. He looks shocked and desperately sad. I look away again.

"It was a stupid thing to do." I whisper, my mind flashing back to the hospital bed I'd woken in after Tara had found me and called an ambulance. I could still remember laying there, both my wrists heavily bandaged, with an elderly doctor leaning over me saying those exact words. 'It was a stupid thing to do Catherine'.

"Why Cat?" Ricky asks softly. "What happened to make you feel that was the only answer?"

Slowly, but remarkably calmly, I tell him what happened. How at the beginning of October in my final year at university my father had fallen down the stairs drunk and hit his head; had died there on his own and hadn't been found for two days.

How I'd forced myself to go to his funeral, all the time feeling only relief that he'd died, and hating myself for feeling that way.

How then, only a few days after the funeral I'd been attacked when walking home after work one evening. I can't bring myself to tell him exactly what had happened, that's too horrible to share even with him right now. I word my explanation in such a way that I hope it sounds like I'd been mugged. There are only three people in the world that know exactly what had happened and I don't want Ricky to be the fourth.