White Lines

She couldn’t get enough of the fuzzy socks she received in her stocking from her family at Christmas this year. The spotted green and black pattern boldly accentuated the pink background in a most pleasing manner. All was calm in her old bedroom, the familiar posters of her youth remained tacked to the walls where she had left them. In her bed late on Saturday evening, journal resting in her lap, fresh-brewed tea on her nightstand, she felt completely refreshed and ready for the New Year.

She reached down and scratched at the top of the anklet socks and felt the prickle of a plastic price tag that hadn’t been completely removed yet. As she picked at the small, sharp annoyance, she caught a glimpse of the skin between her sock and pajama pants, the white bulbous outline of scar tissue ran up her leg like the crooked branch of the willow trees outside her window. Soon her finger traveled further up her ankle and onto her calf, the deep scar tissue being her guide along her pores. Staring blankly into the stringed lights carefully covering the perimeter of her room, she focused on one red light in particular. The red from the light soon encapsulated all other tones in her room. Finger sliding up her calf, she repositioned her hands, now gliding along the inside of her pant leg, and felt the scar tissue approach her knee. Her usually vibrantly pale skin was now as red as the rest of her room, now only contrasting with the piercing white of the healed cuts on her skin.

Warm wetness surrounded her body, she was in the tub again. Looking down expecting to see her nude figure under the ripples of the bathwater, she only saw the all-too-familiar clouds of red, the aftereffects of atomic nukes motherfucking whatever previously laid peacefully under their position. Raw, flesh flaps of skin were wide open in the calm water. Mushroom-cloud bursts of rich red assimilated their shades into the water, previously vacant of any saturation whatsoever. Jaw slightly slacked, she turned her head to the side of the tub and saw her disassembled razorblade, turning hygienic functionality into a weapon of self-harm. Her phone laid silently on the floor several feet from the tub, as an intoxicating wooziness clouded her judgement just as the blood had clouded the water surrounding her. In a moment of God knows what, divine intervention, the human instinct to prolong life, whatever, she flung herself onto the floor and dialed the numbers to save her life. Beet-red bathwater soaked the white bathmat next to the tub, a future relic of landfills. Consciousness fleeted and regained, moans of despair filled her bathroom as she waited for another shot at life, or the beginning of one new and unknown.

The red lights snapped back into focus and contrasted beautifully with the joyous green that we all know signifies the season. In her room again, sweating, she reached down her pajama pant leg and followed the scar up to her thigh. The parallel line perfectly intersected the countless small, horizontal cuts that she had begun when she was just a teenager. Up through her midriff the line ran, all the way to the base of her breast, just below her aching heart, where the incision had begun. A knock at her door broke her from the trance of the permanent game of snake she played on her body.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” questioned her mother from the doorway, her head poking around the corner in whack-a-mole fashion.

“Everything is great, mom. Glad to be home,” she replied with a sweet smile. Her mother returned the grin and vanished from the doorway as quickly as she appeared. Of course, she might not have returned the sentiment if she knew the truth, that she almost suffered the same fate as her brother had just 2 years previous. The scars, the white lines already felt by her family, ran as deep into their flesh as her hidden scars did in her own. Fear, embarrassment, the dread that accompanies the unknown all clouded her mind like a furious thunderstorm. Perhaps it was for the best to suffer in silence, to keep her struggles to herself, to continue to fight this uphill battle as an army of one. There’s no way she could possibly bring this up to her mother, how would she react If she saw the white bulging scar, and she too ran her fingers along its endless path, would she begin to understand? Would the reds on her Christmas lights shine brighter than the other colors? Would the sharp prick of a partially removed price tag feel all too familiar?

She stared back at the wall, the lights now intermittently blinking the way their programming called for. The dazzling spectacle of the simple lights, red and green, pain and safety, alternated as her mind gained the clarity she had longed for so many years. The conversation she feared her whole life regarding her mental illness would loom no longer in the new year. For the first time in scores of months, she stood up, removed her pajama pants and put on athletic shorts. Standing in front of her full-length mirror on her closet door, the white scar lines, along with their puffy pink surrounding hues, told a story of anguish she hid from everyone in her life, even those closest to her. After a long glance at herself, she smiled. She knew her life would never be the same, perhaps she’d end up in a mental recovery center, perhaps her parents wouldn’t let her return after the holidays. But the only guarantee about her life that she knew, was that it would continue. Her fuzzy socks made no sound as she descended the stairs to begin her new start out of the shadows, the lights of Christmas left flickering in her wake.

Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 in times of crisis. Your life is worth it.