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Slices of Pie
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Chapter 2:- Where Can I Begin?
Well, where can I begin? What is it I can explain to you? Let me tell you a little story.
In eight grade, I had passed depressed. I was super, very, extremely depressed. And once, in an outburst of explaining how very unhappy I was, I told my friend that I cut myself. Of course, as a compulsive liar, I had learned early on that for a lie to be believed, there had better some evidence close at hand to prove the lie, to give the illusion of truth. It follows that if I cut my wrists, I would have actually cuts on my wrists. I accomplished proof in the most obvious way possible- I actually slit my wrists. To my intense surprise, I felt a sudden release from everything that had happened recently - my workaholic dad had come down from his at-home office and knocked me down the stairs, displeased about something or other, yet another boyfriend dumped me, and I was fighting with a friend again - as the blood flowed down my wrist. I realized I had found more than perfect evidence. I had found a way out. Soon, I couldn't go without it. I was slitting my wrists every day. I soon ran out of room on my forearms. I cut all over my arms, my ankles, my hips, and my chest. In March, the friend I had originally said it to told the guidance office. That was when I met the student-assistance counselor. A fascinating person, she studied me like a specimen. At first I told her I was fine - it was only three weeks after seeing her that I admitted to cutting. She did not believe when I said that I cut for no particular reason, that nothing was wrong at home. She taught me so many things - did you know that the sun makes you scar? Something about the melanin. After that, I always put strong sunscreen on my wrists when I went outside into strong sun. It always frustrated her that I refused to make any effort to stop. She used to ask me why I bothered coming. I never had an answer for her, thought I do know the reason. Someone was finally paying attention to me, for the first time in so long. But I lied to her too. I was always cryptic and mysterious, hinting at something just beyond the horizon. She once said, and I quote, “Adrina, talking to you makes me blood boil."
"Does it, really."
"Do you know how frustrating you are?"
"Thank you. I try."
Well, where can I begin? What is it I can explain to you? Let me tell you a little story.
In eight grade, I had passed depressed. I was super, very, extremely depressed. And once, in an outburst of explaining how very unhappy I was, I told my friend that I cut myself. Of course, as a compulsive liar, I had learned early on that for a lie to be believed, there had better some evidence close at hand to prove the lie, to give the illusion of truth. It follows that if I cut my wrists, I would have actually cuts on my wrists. I accomplished proof in the most obvious way possible- I actually slit my wrists. To my intense surprise, I felt a sudden release from everything that had happened recently - my workaholic dad had come down from his at-home office and knocked me down the stairs, displeased about something or other, yet another boyfriend dumped me, and I was fighting with a friend again - as the blood flowed down my wrist. I realized I had found more than perfect evidence. I had found a way out. Soon, I couldn't go without it. I was slitting my wrists every day. I soon ran out of room on my forearms. I cut all over my arms, my ankles, my hips, and my chest. In March, the friend I had originally said it to told the guidance office. That was when I met the student-assistance counselor. A fascinating person, she studied me like a specimen. At first I told her I was fine - it was only three weeks after seeing her that I admitted to cutting. She did not believe when I said that I cut for no particular reason, that nothing was wrong at home. She taught me so many things - did you know that the sun makes you scar? Something about the melanin. After that, I always put strong sunscreen on my wrists when I went outside into strong sun. It always frustrated her that I refused to make any effort to stop. She used to ask me why I bothered coming. I never had an answer for her, thought I do know the reason. Someone was finally paying attention to me, for the first time in so long. But I lied to her too. I was always cryptic and mysterious, hinting at something just beyond the horizon. She once said, and I quote, “Adrina, talking to you makes me blood boil."
"Does it, really."
"Do you know how frustrating you are?"
"Thank you. I try."
