POV: Lizzie
Here I was at my empty house at 5 on a Thursday evening eating microwavable Indian food in the living room. Another quiet night at home while my workaholic mother escaped to her office for the night and my brother was off somewhere, as usual. My dad, of course, was dead. He'd died August 31, before the first day of school of a drunk driving accident. My mom came and told me the next morning which was a surprise as she barely told me anything. She then spent the whole day at work the next day and didn't come home. And the next and the next. That was when her becoming a workaholic began. That was not actually where my cutting began. It began my 2nd year of middle school when I was 13. The middle of middle school. But my dad's death definitely had me cutting more. At least I wasn't drinking, like Kate's mom and her cousin, Amy; that would've been ironic. I don't remember why I started cutting.
The other escape was ballet. Nothing mattered but the dancing, the grace, the dedication, the focus. Every move every touch every thing you did was slow. Controlled. Not like life. You knew automatically what to do and your body remembered it. There was another form of self injury, I guess, in the form of pointe shoes although not many think of self-injury as such. You knew you had to have your hair in a bun, not come in late, have good posture, get new pointe shoes when needed, stretch beforehand, wear the correct attire. It was programmed into you. The quiet escape of dance.