"Is everything okay?" Grace asks as we lay in bed, "I saw you holding that knife, it was like you'd been thrown back five years, it scared me"
We just tucked Audrie in bed, none the wiser to her father's past. I keep my skin covered as much as I can, we've already had to tell her a few lies about my arms. One day she'll be old enough to know, and it's likely she won't hear it from me first.
"I'm okay" I answer, "just another intrusive thought" I try to convince myself, "I was just tired, you know? I guess it caught me off guard this time."
A half-truth, it did catch me off guard, that's no lie. It would, however, be a lie to call it 'just another' intrusive thought. This one had teeth, this was something we call an 'urge' and urge = bad. It's nothing new to me, but it's supposed to be old as dust. That's what they don't want to tell you at the hospital after you've run out of skin, that's what they don't want to tell you in group when you tell them you're afraid to stop, that's the dirty secret your therapist keeps.
Maybe I'm giving them too much credit to say it's something they keep hidden, maybe fact is worse than my fiction, maybe they really think this shit just goes away if you keep your journal and you practice your ice cubes and rubber bands and your long list of distractors. It doesn't, it's a disease you swallow with a purpose, one that laughs at you when you look for a cure. I thought we were friends it tells you, and you have to lie and pretend you weren't.
"You're doing really great" she says supportively, and I want to be thankful for it, "I'm really proud of you"
Grace wants to help and Grace is supportive and loving and perfect and Grace tries, she really fucking tries to understand but Grace has never swallowed this disease she doesn't know what it's like to be best friends with a sharp knife and whisper secrets into the second roll of gauze this week with her fifth tube of ointment this month.
"Thank you" I don't lie, "it means a lot" I don't lie, "I love you so much" I don't lie.
Grace loves me, Grace cares, Grace knows what's best for me, probably better than I do. Grace was with me the last time I went to the hospital, Grace helped me stop. Grace is the reason I'm here and Grace is the reason I'm happy and healthy. I love Grace and I love Audrie and I would die for either of them.
But Grace never hid a box of razors from her parents, she didn't have a backup stash under her bed and in in her dresser and a special last resort razor in the back of her phone. Grace didn't spend ten fucking years married to a disorder. She'll say I know it's hard and I know sometimes you want to give in and remind me over and over again, but you can't.
I know I can't, but it's not just hard, and its not just sometimes.
YOU ARE READING
Healed
Short StorySometimes the hardest part of recovery is accepting that it's successful. For Isaac Martin, even a perfect life with his beautiful wife and daughter isn't enough to make him forget his past. Blades still call out his name, and his skin begs to be pi...
