Gashes and Wounds

I look in the mirror, watching the blood stream down my face. “This is all my fault,” I whisper.

“Jane, are you alright in there?” my boyfriend, Kyle, asks.

My hand slips on the knife, a deep wound appearing on my arm. Panic cascades through me. He can’t see this. Can’t see me. No one can know that I become this, taking a blade and ripping through my own flesh, just to feel the pain.

I blot my arm until the blood slows and yank on a long sleeved shirt. The gash on my cheek gapes open. I slather concealer on until there’s only a faint red outline, pull a baseball cap over my face, and twist open the door. My coverup is not perfect, but hopefully it will last for now.

“Hey, Jane!” Kyle grins at me. I sort of want to disappear, because he looks like a sexy model and I look like… me. All slashed up and bloody and trying to hide behind clothing and makeup. “Why are you hiding that beautiful face of yours?”

Before I can stop him, he takes my baseball cap off my head and tucks it under his arm. He kisses my forehead, then frowns. “I think you might have something on your cheek,” he tells me. “Let me get a wipe.”

This is so awful. Why does he like me so much? It’s fine, it’s cool that he cares enough to clean me up, but I wish he would just leave my “beautiful face” alone right now. Of course, I’m in love with Kyle and his thoughtful ways, and I realize most people would give up their front teeth for a boyfriend as sweet as him, but his selflessness can get a bit annoying.

“I’m back, babe,” Kyle says behind me.

“You really don’t need to clean my face, I can-”

But he’s already scrubbing away. My concealer is disappearing rapidly. I yank away before he can completely unearth my secret.

“Are you okay, J?” Kyle asks worriedly. “There’s just a bit more. Is the wipe scratching you?”

I want to vomit. He’s so cute and concerned for me, while I’m hiding everything from him. What did I do to deserve him?

“Almost done,” comes his voice, and I realize he’s been rubbing at my wound. “Ah! There we go! Is that be-”

He gasps at the slice on my face. I shut my eyes.

“Who did this, Janie-Jane? Tell me, it’s going to be fine.”

“Kyle,” I choke out, my voice a mangled, cracked moan. Then I start crying.

“Woah, woah, Jane, it’s okay,” Kyle murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

I know I have to tell him. But he’ll never look at me the same way again. I won’t be his Janie-Jane anymore, I’ll be the weirdo who cuts up her own body.

Quietly, I press my face into his chest and breath in the soft, Febreze-y smell of him that I will probably never smell again. I breath out a hurricane.

“I did it.”

“No, babe. Who hurt you?”

“I did it,” I repeat. “I hurt myself because I’m a stupid idiot and I want to feel pain.” The words are punctuated with big, heaving sobs as I reveal myself to him. I pull up the sleeves of my shirt and show him the long slice on my arm. Waiting for him to reject me is worse than the hurt when I created that gash.

“I’m sorry,” I cry into him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Jane,” Kyle says in a voice gushing sadness. “Oh, my poor, poor Jane.”

I look up at him, big blue eyes full of tears and words unsaid. “Do you hate me?” I ask meekly.

“No, baby. Oh, no, I adore you forever. I could never hate you. Never. Never ever ever ever ever. Okay? Do you understand?” His expression crumples and he hugs me.

When Kyle pulls away, he looks miserable and mumbles, “Was it… was it… because of me?”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Did you hurt yourself because you wanted to get away from me?”

“No no no no no. Oh, Kyle, no. I love you so much. I could never leave you. I hurt myself because… Because I wanted to escape to somewhere where there was no pain.” I wipe away the tears, take a breath, and offer him a watery smile. “Does that make sense?”

He nods, a slightly relieved look on his face. “I thought it was because of me. Because you hated me.”

“I love you more than the moon loves the stars,” I say, which is sappy but true.

“I love you too, Janie-Jane. But…” I brace myself for the words “we need to break up”. “…But you need help.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to be my boyfriend anymore. I get it if you don’t,” I whisper, my voice soft. “I wouldn’t want to be my boyfriend either.”

“No. I want to be your boyfriend forever and ever. But I can’t help you. You need someone to talk to.”

“Like a therapist?”

“Yes.”

The world seems to tip. Therapists are for people who are struggling with mental disorders. But, I remind myself, this is a mental disorder. That doesn’t help me from feeling like a broken toy. A puzzle missing a piece.

“I want you to be okay,” Kyle tells me.

And I realize:

That’s all I’ve ever wanted too.

Kyle hugs me. “Do you want me to bandage those?”

“Yes,” I whisper sadly, wishing I didn’t have to be stitched up like an old doll. I hated feeling like I needed someone to fix me. But I did. And then I remember that I’m not broken, I’m just me. And I will always be me. I just want to be a better version of that me so I can feel better. I want to feel better. I want not to hurt myself. I want to love and be loved. And I can and will do all that and more, because I wanted to.

Being me didn’t change a thing.