Diary of Blood

Chapter Two

Hearing my heavy breathing and strangled cries of pain, Joanne makes her way to the kitchen in mere seconds- seconds that I've spent mercilessly lacerating my trembling body. I don't think or care about writing words. I don't think about anything. I just cut- faster, deeper- not thinking, not feeling, not caring about consequences. I am aware only of three words: "I hate myself."

Vaguely, I register screaming. That must be me because Joanne never panics when she knows she's the only one even remotely capable of being calm in a certain situation. I must be the one sobbing and hyperventilating, too. It's funny that I can't tell, but all I know now is blood and pain and cuts. More cuts. I can't stop.

I wouldn't have noticed Joanne come in; but I do, simply because she kneels down beside me and wrenches the blood-soaked piece of ceramic out of my hand, throwing it across the room where I can't get to it. I scream without knowing why.

Joanne stands up and gathers as many paper towels and kitchen towels as she can. In the time it takes her to do this, I begin clawing myself furiously with my fingernails. I continue this destruction as Joanne tries her best to use the towels to staunch the heavy flow of blood pouring out from my mangled anatomy and begin cleaning and bandaging the significant damage I've done. At the same time, she's saying something to me that I can't make out over my hysterics and trying to pry my hands away from my mutilated body. But then she does something that I wouldn't have expected, had I been mentally capable of formulating expectations at that point in time.

She takes my blood-drenched and limp wrists in her hands and forces my arms around her in a hug. Still hysterical and out of my senses from losing so much blood, I dig my nails hard into her back. It's only when I register a sharp, pained inhalation that I realize what I'm doing. I pull away from her as quickly as I can manage, screaming 'I'm sorry!' over and over again.

Joanne places one hand on my upper back and the other on my stomach at the bottom of my rib cage, forcing me- firmly but gently- to lie down on the floor. Without knowing why, I fall silent. "It's just fine, Honeybear. You didn't mean it, Baby Girl, and I know that. I just needed a way to get you to stop, that's all," Joanne tells me gently. "Now, I need you to lie still for me for just a minute. I'll be right back, Honeybear." As if she's cast a spell on me, I suddenly feel paralyzed. All I can do is lie here on the cold, hard floor and cry.

True to her word, Joanne quickly reappears, carrying with her all of the first aid stuff she is able to find in the bathroom, plus all the towels. Suddenly, as Joanne repositions herself beside me, I come to my senses and realize the full extent of what I've done to myself. I also suddenly feel completely naked in my little, low-cut boy shorts and sheer tank top. I'm immediately gripped by an overwhelming feeling of shame and terror: that I'm capable of this; that she's discovered my secret; that I'm going to die; that she'll be afraid of me; that she'll now hate me as much as I hate myself; that she'll never forgive me; that she'll never trust me again; that she'll hurt me; that she'll take this habit away from me because she won't understand that making it hurt on the outside is the only way I can make myself stop thinking about how much it hurts on the inside; that she'll hurt me; that she'll tell people about my secret; that she'll hurt me.

Within a half hour, Joanne has managed to significantly slow the bleeding out of the worst cuts, most of which are on my legs. I spend those minutes crying; watching in terror as her hands come into contact with my mangled, trembling body; flinching away from her touch; and crying harder when this action doesn't dissuade her from continuing to touch me. Instead of stopping she just murmurs to me soothingly while she continues. But I don't listen. All I know, and all I can think, is that she's going to hate me now that she knows my secret. And that she's going to hurt me.

Now that the worst cuts have been addressed, Joanne starts to clean the other cuts- the ones that are more insignificant, as well as the larger ones that have already started to clot on their own. She stands up again to get one of the towels wet; and although I've managed to refrain every other time she's done this (except, of course, the first time), this time, when she isn't looking, I dig my nails deep into the skin of my right hip. It's like I can't even control my own body anymore.

Joanne turns back to me at the same time I feel blood starting to flow from beneath my fingers. "No, Maureen," she says firmly but quietly as she sits back down and pulls my hand away. She cleans the little punctures I've just made and covers them with one of those big, 2" x 3" Band-Aids. After that, she wipes the blood from my fingertips. As Joanne hesitantly begins cleaning the cuts on my stomach, she says, "Maureen, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to tell me the truth. Can you promise me that you'll do that?"

In response, I flinch hard and whimper as she touches the sensitive place a couple inches in from my hipbone. A fresh round of tears stings my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Honeybear," Joanne whispers. "I didn't mean to: I just have to clean you up, Honey, that's all. You're safe, Baby Girl. I promise I'll keep you safe."

"Joey," I whimper. It's the only thing I can think of to say. As is to be expected of me, I don't know how to tell her about all my fears.

"I'm right here, Honeybear. And I'm going to do everything I can to take care of you- I promise you that."

Out of nowhere, panic overtakes me again. "Joanne, you can't tell anyone!" I all but scream.

"You don't have to worry, Honey," she tells me as she helps me sit up. "Come here, Mo," she coaxes gently.

I hold Joanne's hand and let her lead me to the bathroom, where I sit on the countertop and let her begin her work on my right arm. I don't know if she's trying to hurt me, or if she can't help it because of the fact that I already hurt myself. All I understand right now is that it hurts when she touches me. But it also hurts when she doesn't touch me.

While she continues to bandage my right arm, I reach over and brush the fingers of my left hand across a deep cut near my wrist. Under my fingertips, the cut burns worse than my fingertips ever did under that stupid curling iron. "Careful, Honey. We don't want it to start bleeding again," Joanne reminds me, moving my hand away and covering the cut with gauze. Her voice is soothing, and I'm no longer quite so afraid of her touch because my little experiment has proven that the pain is all my fault- not Joanne's.

After a minute, she softly asks, "Maureen, Honeybear? Will you promise me that you'll be honest with me when I ask you these questions?" I nod, though I refuse to look away from the lingering hand on my right upper arm. I just can't help it: I'm still afraid. Deep down, I know I always will be.

She drops her hand for a moment, and I look up. "Maureen, I know this might seem ridiculous, but I really need you to look me in the eye and answer me out loud… This just isn't something either of us can afford to mess around with." The look in her eyes tells me that she understands how much she's asking of me.

"I promise," I tell her, barely loudly enough for her to hear. She's just finished my right arm, and now Joanne starts on my chest. Immediately upon my feeling her touch, all the muscles in my stomach clench, and I double over feeling like I'm about to vomit. "At least I finally got her to stop touching me."

When the wave of nausea passes, I sit up a bit straighter and look to Joanne with pleading eyes. "Please trust me, Maureen," Joanne whispers. "I will never, ever hurt you. I promise you that." Very slowly, I nod.

Joanne draws close to me again, beginning this time by tenderly placing her left hand at the center of my back and rubbing slow, gentle circles. In spite of this valiant attempt at providing me a sense of security, when Joanne's right hand softly comes into contact with my chest, I flinch hard and collapse against the woman who is the source of both my terror and my protection.

After a minute, I hear Joanne sigh. "Okay, Honeybear," she says, "I guess my first question has to be…" she sighs again, "Maureen, were you trying to kill yourself?"

"No, Joey," I breathe, "I swear I wasn't." She interrupts the circles on my back to stroke my hair once, which tells me that she believes me. Finally satisfied that she's done what she can for the cuts on my chest, Joanne grabs a clean towel and begins to address the gashes on my face. After cleaning the rest of my face, she examines my left cheek.

"Is this the first one you did?" she asks in a whisper.

"Yes," I answer, equally quietly. "Why?"

"It's already starting to scab over- just barely." For a moment, we both just look at each other. Then, very, very slowly- to make sure I'm not too afraid of it- Joanne leans in and places a tender kiss on my cheek, just barely off to the side of the scratch marks.

She next begins work on my left upper arm, asking, "Maureen, have you ever done this before?" When my only response is to burst into tears, I know she understands that I have.

Joanne stops her work and very carefully cups my cheeks in her hands. "Maureen," she says earnestly, "I won't be upset with you. I promise. I just need to know the truth." There is a long silence as I stare with apprehension into her warm, loving eyes.

"Yes," I squeak. Joanne nods. Of course I have. She drops her hands to my knees.

"How often do you do it?"

"Not that much…" I answer slowly, struggling to find the words I need to describe this thing- this habit- that I've never discussed with anyone before. "Just… Just on the really… really bad days… About once a month, I guess," I finally mumble.

"Why do you do it, Honeybear?"

"Finally," I think, "an easy question." "Read my arm."

"What?"

"Read my arm," I repeat simply, extending my left arm to show her. I watch sheepishly as Joanne's eyes widen and fill with tears, and she brings a hand up to cover her slightly opened mouth. This all happens in a matter of seconds as she reads the shaky block letters that I cut into my arm more than two hours ago: 'I HATE MYSELF'.