the day i quit

WARNING for anyone who's gonna read this: this story is about a self harm addiction. I used to suffer from this but have been through months of therapy, I'm good now. I wrote about this because writing is a good way for me to process and I wanted to “write what I know.”

I’m not allowed around scissors anymore…

…my fellow employees don’t know that, or they don’t care.

I stare down at my hands like they were the sinners, when in reality it was myself all along.

Scissors have a million uses, I should know. I’ve used them to open a can before. But one of the lesser known and darker uses of scissors is for the purposes of self-harm.

I hide my arms, (and the many scrapes and missing layers of skin now coating them), beneath my ivory-colored sleeves and take a deep breath.

In and out.

I tighten the knot on my apron behind my back.

It’s showtime.

I push through the staff doors into the bustling shop where people are enjoying their drinks and chatting with each other. It’s a stark juxtaposition from what I was doing to myself two minutes ago but not an unwelcome one. The aroma is strong and if I’m being honest with myself not one in particular I like but I can accept it because I get paid. I walk behind the counter where my coworker is taking orders and begin to work.

My job is a fine craft, honed over years of experience and hard work. I make excellent drinks for the finest of customers and I do so with pride. Every dollop of whipped cream, every shot of syrup I place with delicate care.

I wish I could take pride in my work, but I seldom take pride in things these days. Too much is going on behind the scenes for me to give the light to things that deserve it.

I wash my hands and the water reaches a cut on my wrist. I stifle a yelp and pull my sleeve back down. My coworkers keep asking why I never pull my sleeves up when I’m washing my hands.

It’s because they couldn’t handle the horrors they would be forced to behold if I pulled up my sleeves.

I’m a giant germaphobe so this is not the first time I am washing my hands today and it certainly will not be the last. I believe It’s because of my autism but I can never be sure when it comes to the elusive disorder.

Another thing I hate because of my autism is when people touch me unexpectedly, which is why I jumped so hard when I felt a hand fall on my shoulder.

“Ivy,” it was my boss, Mr. Stanly. He was mostly laid back but I still didn’t like him in my space. It felt more like an invasion than a friendly chat. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure,” I answered. I wait a moment for him to start the conversation but then he doesn’t and instead begins walking towards his office. “Oh,” I thought, “it’s that kind of talk.”

I quickly follow him through the wooded door to his office as he rounds his desk. He gestures at me but I don’t understand it. He catches on and says “take a seat.”

I pull out the chair and sit in it, nerves beginning to creep up on me. I was certainly going to be fired, I knew I wasn’t good enough for even the most simple of jobs.

“Ivy—“ he begins, but I cut him off.

“Am I fired? Because if I’m getting fired I would appreciate it if you could just tell me.”

He seems caught off guard by this and immediately begins to comfort me.

“No no no! Please calm down, I am not going to fire you!”

I gave him a suspicious look, “then, what is it?” I ask.

“Well,” he paused like he’s preparing for a great exposition to begin. “I’ve noticed a pattern of self harm in you when you’re alone in the break room.”

This is worse than getting fired.

“Furthermore, since you are on company property and using company scissors to do it with, the company has asked me to take action—“ he begins to reach for something but I cut him off.

“—Wait!” He pauses his motions and gives me a look. “I can explain. Whatever you saw, clearly misunderstood. I’ve never self harmed before and I never intend to.” The lie slides coolly off my tongue and sounds almost natural in my tone. Almost.

“I’m sorry Ivy,” he continues. “Based on the security footage I have of you I have no choice, I need you to get a mental health evaluation before you come back to work.”

He slides a folder filled with papers towards me and I stare at it blankly. Once it’s within reach, I slowly extend my right hand and open the folder.

Inside are several forms for different local mental health facilities that can do evaluations. I look up at him and he has a damn smile on his face, like this could be a positive thing.

This is not positive. It’s the opposite.

I take a deep breath.

In and out.

I give him a curt “thank you” and turn to leave his office. Just as my hand reaches the doorknob though he says something.

“Ivy.”

I continue to hold the doorknob and refuse to look at him. “Dear, please look at me,” he said. I begrudgingly turned and gave him the most dead look I could muster.

“This is for the best.”

This time I smile at him, but it’s something twisted and dark. “Sure dear, sure it is.”

And I walk out.

I walk to my locker and collect my stuff in swift, angered movments. My friend from the counter earlier comes in and asks me why I’m grabbing my stuff. I decided to tell her the truth.

“I was just forced to quit.”

I miss anything else she says in my anger, (frustration?), (disappointment in myself?), and walk out. I walk through the bustling store front that is a stark juxtaposition to what just happened and out through the front door. The bell rings as I push through and almost scares me. Almost.

And I leave.

So I guess I need to get a new job now.