A Quiet Mind - Chapter One
Title: A Quiet Mind - 1
Author:
temblabamomo
Pairing: Jeph/Quinn
Rating: R
POV: 1st person - Jeph
Summary: A nasty bout with a razor blade lands Jeph in therapy. Determined not to let group discussions or talks with a psychiatrist change his self-destructive ways, Jeph enters the rehab facility close-minded and bitter. He doesn't think he can make the next three months without self-injuring, and he's sure it's going to be hell. Until he meets Quinn, the thin boy with the straw-colored hair who makes the days more bearable and life a lot brighter. Desperately in need of help himself, Quinn might find just the saviour he needs in Jeph.
Disclaimer: I do not own these people.
Author Notes: I'm not sure if this is something I'll continue or not. I'd like to, but it just depends on the response it gets. And I'd like to dedicate the prologue to Mixed Berry Nutra Grain Bars; they're the shit.
Warnings: For the prologue - mentions of SI, some language.
Prologue
There's nothing romantic about this.
You won't find any flowing poetry in the words we carve in our skin, only screaming curses in the form of silent blood, our personal declarations of hate and disgust.
We are the living, just as much as we are the dying; we're the weak and the strong, losing it all to emotion and glorifying our battles in thin red marks of shame and anger on our skin.
There isn't anything heroic or admirable in the way we hide our hearts behind these open wounds. All we do is dream out loud, all of our twisted wishes for perfection painted on pale canvasses of skin.
You won't see sadness or grief in our tears, just the feelings we hide in blood.
There's nothing beautiful, romantic, or sane about this. It's what we know, and what we do best.
But we are not alone.
******************************************************************************************************
Chapter One
Dr. Iero was a small man. He was a small man with a small smile and a big personality. He wanted me, everyone, to call him Frank. Just Frank. He was one of five psychiatrists working at the center, and it was easy to see why I'd been assigned to him - he had piercings and tattoos, shaggy dark brown hair and a band t-shirt. He could have been my twin.
"Jeph with a 'ph', huh? That's pretty sweet." I wasn't in the mood for niceness and phony compliments as I watched him peruse my file. It was pretty thick.
"My mom told me once that she'd thought about naming me "Phrank" with a 'ph'," he rambled, flipping through pages like he might a magazine. "I'm kinda glad she didn't though." Looking up, he grinned at me. He had a nice smile, but that didn't do anything to ease the feeling of my wanting to drown in the plush upholstiery of the chair I sat in.
"So Jeph..." he was leaning forward, and I stared at the lines and swirls of color on the t-shirt he wore under his jacket, but I didn't read the band name on it. I didn't care. "Wanna talk about why you're here?" he asked. Frank's voice was softer, not as jovial as it had been only moments ago. Maybe he hadn't managed to get any information at all when he was speed reading through my file. The cat clock on the wall ticked. I hoped it wasn't one of those ones that meowed every hour.
"Not really." No matter how low I let myself sink into the chair, the damn thing just wasn't willing to swallow me. It was pretty embarrassing to be sitting here like this, and I felt shame creep into my skin, hot and red. I was twenty-one years old, and I was sitting here acting like a four-year-old. Fuck me, I didn't care. I just wanted out.
Frank nodded, like maybe that was the answer he was expecting. "Okay," He sat back in his chair, leaning his head against the wall as he studied me. Or at least, that's how it felt - like being studied. I was a rat with altered genes, and he was waiting for a second tail to grow.
"Do you want to talk about the weather then?" The clock was really, really loud behind me. The nerves in my back tensed. I was sure it was going to strike the hour and start meowing at any minute.
I cleared my throat, sitting forward and trying to keep my knees from shaking, or my foot from tapping. "It's um...it's sunny." It was the best I could do. If he was expecting poetry, or educating meterologist commentary, he'd be disappointed.
"That's a good observation. It tells me a lot about you. We're making progress." The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. I sighed, and finally relented.
"It's sunny, and the birds are out because it's Spring time and they're all getting ready to fuck each other and lay eggs. Flowers are coming out and people are mowing their lawns. If you want to know how I feel about that, well...it pisses me off."
I watched him nod again, and a slight smile crept over his face. "That's pretty accurate. Can I ask why it pisses you off?" The conversation had been light-hearted so far, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before Doctor Frank would get around to touchier things.
Another sigh escaped me. "Because everything's bright and happy. And I'm not."
"Why aren't you happy Jeph?" Was that rhetorical? What the fuck kind of answer did he want? 'I'm not happy because my head doesn't work right and I cut myself with razor blades to make myself feel better and the whole world found out about two weeks ago and now I'm locked up in this place'?
"I don't know. I'm just...not." Saying so shouldn't have had so much of an impact on me, but it did. I felt my lip quivering and tears sprang to my eyes. I'm such a fucking pussy sometimes. I'm a girl, I really think I am.
"It's okay Jeph. Here." He offered me a box of tissues, from which I only took one. Real men don't need tissues. Fake men don't need more than one, or at least, we pretend not to.
"Jeph, you don't have to pretend you're happy, or that things are okay," Frank began, watching me sniffle and bit and act like a total pansy. "You might not know why you feel the way you do, and right now, neither do I. But the way you feel - it's not your fault."
I sniffed again and snorted out a laugh. "Right, it has something to do with brain chemistry or something, or my genes. Or I could just be completely fucking mental."
"Could be. Or there could be deeper, psychological reasons behind it all. But that's why we're here, to help you figure all this out. This is a dumb question, but would you consider yourself depressed?"
"I'm bursting into tears in your office for no reason. I'd say yes."
Frank chuckled. "Yeah, that's a good point. Can I ask you another question? You don't have to answer if you don't know."
I nodded. He wasn't so bad.
"Do you think you cut because you're depressed, or you're depressed because you cut?" Now there was a zinger. I realized I had no idea.
"I um...I don't know. Both, I guess."
"Okay." It seemed to be an acceptable enough answer for him, and I watched him flip a bit more through my file. "Do you harm yourself in any way other than cutting? Hair pulling, wrist banging?"
I shook my head.
"What do you use?"
"Razor blade." I whispered.
"Where on your body do you cut?"
"Arms." I choked out.
He looked up from the file for a minute to study me. "Are you alright?" Any idiot could tell I wasn't. My stomach felt like a swarm of termites had taken up residence. They were nibbling away at my insides. Not a pleasant feeling.
"Yes."
Frank arched an eyebrow. "You don't look alright."
I shrugged. "I don't like talking about it. It's not a problem anyway."
"No one likes talking about their personal stuff Jeph. But that's why you're here, so we can talk about it and try to figure out how to make you feel better."
"I feel fine." Other than being sick to my stomach and needing a cigarette and a few good slices to my arm, I really did feel fine. If I just didn't have to be here...
"You just said you thought you were depressed." He stated, a bit flat as he frowned.
"Yeah, maybe. But I don't need to be in an inpatient program for that do I? Shit, I don't even cut myself that bad." I said, looking anywhere but his eyes. Maybe Frank was a nice guy. But he didn't understand, did he? He didn't know how good it felt to rip up your own skin, how emormous and immediate the relief was.
"No. But you do need to be in intense therapy for self-injurers. You were hospitalized, Jeph. Whether you meant to hurt yourself that badly or not, it still means you're a danger to yourself. Ergo, you need to be here."
I couldn't really argue with that point, even if I didn't agree with it. The problem with having a million thoughts a minute flying through your brain often means it's hard to pick out one response or argument. I sat back in silent frustration. "I don't need to be here," I mumbled. "If you'd just give me something to take for the depression, then I'd be happy and I wouldn't need to cut myself. Problem solved."
"That's one theory. But let's not jump to conclusions, okay? Let's just get on with the questions."
I shrugged. Outside, the birds were loud. The clock was loud. The carpet under my feet was loud. Everything was too loud.
The next thirty minutes were spent going through a series of pretty simple question. How old was I? Was I in school? Did I get along with my parents? Why? Why not? Did I have any siblings? Did I have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Did I know of any history of mental illness in my family? Was I allergic to any medications? On a scale of one to ten, how depressed was I? Did I have thoughts of suicide?
I just went on and on. Most things were simple yes or no questions, but I could tell by the long pauses between them that Frank wanted me to elaborate. I didn't though, or at least not more than I had to. We didn't talk any more about SI until the end of the session. Frank set down the note pad he'd been furiously scribbling down my answers on, and leaned back to blow out a sigh.
"Not so bad, huh?" he asked, a wry grin on his face.
I shrugged. "Any old shrink could ask me those questions. I don't get why I have to be in a hospital for it." Really. While I was zoning out and answering questions, I think I really had convinced myself that nothing was wrong with me. Sure, I was a little down sometimes. Well, a lot of the time. But I could deal with that.
"One more question?" Frank was sitting forward, arching his eyebrows. He had really pretty eyes, I noticed. Like a puppy dog, only warmer. I nodded yes, hoping to get it over with so I could leave and go back to my room.
"Jeph, can you show me your arms?" His voice was a lot gentler now, and it took me a few seconds to even understand what he'd said.
"Um..."
"Jeph, I need to see. More importantly, you need to see. SI isn't something we can all just ignore and hide under long sleeves. Tell me something," He gazed at me intently, and for a moment I almost gave in and allowed myself to find comfort in his warm eyes. "Do you want to stop cutting? Be honest."
Did I want to stop? Of course I did. But that was simply out of the question. Cutting was a desire a woke up with every morning, a blood red thoughts that stayed in my head all day every day until I couldn't stand it. It was an addiction, I knew that, but who says all addictions are bad? As far as I was concerned, it was the only way in the world that I could cope with the emotional stress I felt every day.
"Well...no, honestly, I don't want to stop. But..." I thought for a minute, trying to find the words. "But I think I'd like to stop needing and wanting to cut. If it wasn't something I wanted to do all the time, then I probably wounldn't do it."
Frank nodded. It was the answer he'd been expecting, and he seemed to accept it easily. "Okay, I can understand that. So now we have a goal: get you to stop wanting to hurt yourself. Does that sound fair?"
I shrugged. Nothing about this seemed fair. And I was pretty damn sure that short of brainwashing me, there was no chance in hell that anybody could ever make me stop wanting to cut. "I guess."
"Alright then. So why don't you want to show me your arms?" he asked.
Again, I offered a shrug. "I dunno. I guess...I guess I just don't like for people to see, that's all."
"Is it because you don't want to hurt other people? Is it because looking at them upsets you? Are you ashamed of them?" I was beginning to dislike the fact that this guy was probably a hell of a lot smarter than me. He had a fancy looking certificate mounted on his wall, so I was assuming he had a buttload of intelligence. I hated premeditatively walking into being outsmarted.
I sighed, long and low. Yeah, shame, that was it. "It's because cutting is something that's...I dunno, taboo? People look down on it. Even though I don't feel like it's wrong, society's vote outweighs mine. Society makes me ashamed of my scars, but I'm not."
Frank nodded again. "Well, that's a good point Jeph, it definitely makes sense. So let me tell you something." Frank got up and walked around his desk to sit on the edge of the sofa across from me. I suppose there was some symbolism in getting the desk out of the way of our conversation, like he wanted to show me we were equals or something. I liked Frank, he was a cool guy, but I wasn't sure I was ready to trust him just yet.
"Jeph, while we're in this room, we're not society. This "society" you talk about, they're a bunch of ignoramuses. People look down on SI because they don't understand it; it's not something they've ever felt the need to do to themselves. But while you and me are this room, or anywhere else for that matter, you need to know that I'm not going to judge you." He sighed and sat back against the couch, rubbing at his eyes. "I don't know what's going through your mind right now, I probably never will and it's still too early into your stay here for any progress to have been made. But I do know that, whether you agree or not, you need help understanding all these emotions you're feeling. That's my job - help you sort it all out. That's all. I'm not here to judge you or tell you that what you're doing is wrong. I've seen a lot of scars during my career, and believe me, seeing yours isn't going to make me think any different of you."
I blinked, a little taken aback. The man was right. He was a professional, and there really wasn't any reason for me to be afraid of showing him the damage I'd inflicted on my skin. He wasn't the enemy - my mind was the enemy. And he wanted to help me understand and tame it.
That still didn't really explain why my hands shook as I grudgingly pulling up my hoodie sleeves. Maybe my head really was just as fucked up as everyone thought it was. Here I was trying to convince a psychiatrist that I wasn't ashamed of what I did to myself and that there was nothing wrong with it, and yet my heart was still beating a mile a minute because a part of me was terrified.
Both sleeves up, I held my arms out to Frank, wrists up, for him to see. He didn't lean forward or examine them closely, but I knew he was taking in the same damage I saw - scores of identical thin red lines over soft, pale skin, thicker pink scars that had hardened over time. I small shiver worked it's way down my spine whenever my eyes wandered over the gigantic gash on my right forearm, still held together with thread and staples from my recent hospital visit. It looked so violent, so angry, and I remembered the rage inside me that I had directed at myself when I did it. All of the scars looked angry. Thin ones ran across thicker ones, criss-crossing one another in a dizzying pattern of marred flesh.
Frank finally sat forward, nodding his head and looking me in the eye. "Thank you Jeph. That's all I wanted to see."
I stared back down at my arms for a few more seconds before pulling my sleeves down. It felt good to let someone other than me see them for once, but I still wasn't used to the feeling. They were the evidence of my inner battles, no one elses, and I didn't like sharing.
Back behind his desk, Frank shuffled a few papers. "Jeph, I need to know that you're willing to work with me here. It says a lot that you're willing to show me, but I need to know that you're at least going to put some effort into the time we spend together here. I know you say you don't want to stop cutting, but are you at least willing to work with me and try to understand why you do it?"
I wondered if the images on my arms had scared him, if maybe they were worse than he'd been expecting. Frank looked a little worried. I nodded, a bit reluctant. What choice did I have anyway? "Yeah. That's fair."
He smiled. "Good," Pulling a paper out of his desk and handing it over to me, he explained, "Then the first thing you need to do is sign this paper."
Looking at it, I tried to read, but it seemed to be a lot of legal mumbo jumbo to me. I thought my mother had filled out all my paperwork already. "What is it?"
"It's a contract," he explained, sitting back down and fiddling with a pencil. "Among other things, it says that if you sign it, you're promising not to harm yourself during your stay here."
I looked at him, dubious. "That's a lot easier said than done."
"I know it is. But it's part of the program. If other patients who are trying to get better see you doing it, it might trigger them to start again. And if we ever want to get to the root of your feelings, then sometimes the best way for that to happen is for you to just stop for a while, step away from razor blades and start looking at things from a different perspective." He grinned. "Plus, you can get kicked out if we find out you're hurting yourself. As much as you don't want to be here Jeph, I really don't think you want to get kicked out."
He had that right, I sure as fuck didn't want to be here. My stomach was already tying itself in knots thinking about leaving the tiny office and doing stressful things, like meeting other people and shit. But on the other hand, getting kicked out would probably get me in a hell of a lot of trouble with the state - they were the ones, after all, who had signed a court order saying I had to be here. Prison didn't sound like fun at the moment.
Taking the pen he offered, I scribbled down some lines that vaguely resembled my name, and handed the paper back to him.
"Alright then. I guess we're done for today." Looking down at my file, he marked down a few things. "I want to meet with you three times a week for now, and maybe as you start settling in here, it'll be just once or twice a week. But remember, my door's always open. Same with the other doctors; if you're ever feeling upset, or you're having trouble sticking to the contract, or you just want to talk, we're all open ears. Any questions?" Frank had come back around to sit in front of me on the sofa again, hands clasped before him. He looked pleased with how the session had gone.
I shrugged. I couldn't think of any questions. "Nope. Can I go now?"
Frank laughed. "Yeah. It was good meeting you Jeph," he stood up, walking me to the door and holding it open for me. "I'll see you back on Wednesday then, okay?"
I nodded, throwing him a tight, appreciative smile as I hurried out into the waiting room. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."
I liked Frank, I really did, but I still couldn't stop the trip-hammer feeling in my chest as I hurried out into the hallway. My arms itches, my shoulders itched. I could deal with being here against my will, but I wasn't sure I could cope with complete strangers letting themselves into my personal life and trying to change my ways. I'd meant it when I'd told Frank that I wanted to stop wanting to SI. But the thought of losing the one and only outlet I'd ever known for all my feelings was scary as hell.
Scratching at my wrist, I kept my gaze on the tiled floor beneath my feet, replaying the entire session over in my head and trying not to have some kind freak out panic attack about being here. As I rounded the corner to the hallway I was staying on, I didn't even see the other boy coming at me under we'd collided full force and fallen into a tangle of arms and legs and dirty-blonde hair. Dazed, for a few seconds, all I could take in were the dangerously thin limbs, slightly goofy, apologetic smile, a head of dirty blonde hair, and the saddest pair of eyes I had ever seen.
A/N: Thank you all for reading! I hope the chapter didn't disappoint. <3s, Mo
Author:
temblabamomo
Pairing: Jeph/Quinn
Rating: R
POV: 1st person - Jeph
Summary: A nasty bout with a razor blade lands Jeph in therapy. Determined not to let group discussions or talks with a psychiatrist change his self-destructive ways, Jeph enters the rehab facility close-minded and bitter. He doesn't think he can make the next three months without self-injuring, and he's sure it's going to be hell. Until he meets Quinn, the thin boy with the straw-colored hair who makes the days more bearable and life a lot brighter. Desperately in need of help himself, Quinn might find just the saviour he needs in Jeph.
Disclaimer: I do not own these people.
Author Notes: I'm not sure if this is something I'll continue or not. I'd like to, but it just depends on the response it gets. And I'd like to dedicate the prologue to Mixed Berry Nutra Grain Bars; they're the shit.
Warnings: For the prologue - mentions of SI, some language.
Prologue
There's nothing romantic about this.
You won't find any flowing poetry in the words we carve in our skin, only screaming curses in the form of silent blood, our personal declarations of hate and disgust.
We are the living, just as much as we are the dying; we're the weak and the strong, losing it all to emotion and glorifying our battles in thin red marks of shame and anger on our skin.
There isn't anything heroic or admirable in the way we hide our hearts behind these open wounds. All we do is dream out loud, all of our twisted wishes for perfection painted on pale canvasses of skin.
You won't see sadness or grief in our tears, just the feelings we hide in blood.
There's nothing beautiful, romantic, or sane about this. It's what we know, and what we do best.
But we are not alone.
******************************************************************************************************
Chapter One
Dr. Iero was a small man. He was a small man with a small smile and a big personality. He wanted me, everyone, to call him Frank. Just Frank. He was one of five psychiatrists working at the center, and it was easy to see why I'd been assigned to him - he had piercings and tattoos, shaggy dark brown hair and a band t-shirt. He could have been my twin.
"Jeph with a 'ph', huh? That's pretty sweet." I wasn't in the mood for niceness and phony compliments as I watched him peruse my file. It was pretty thick.
"My mom told me once that she'd thought about naming me "Phrank" with a 'ph'," he rambled, flipping through pages like he might a magazine. "I'm kinda glad she didn't though." Looking up, he grinned at me. He had a nice smile, but that didn't do anything to ease the feeling of my wanting to drown in the plush upholstiery of the chair I sat in.
"So Jeph..." he was leaning forward, and I stared at the lines and swirls of color on the t-shirt he wore under his jacket, but I didn't read the band name on it. I didn't care. "Wanna talk about why you're here?" he asked. Frank's voice was softer, not as jovial as it had been only moments ago. Maybe he hadn't managed to get any information at all when he was speed reading through my file. The cat clock on the wall ticked. I hoped it wasn't one of those ones that meowed every hour.
"Not really." No matter how low I let myself sink into the chair, the damn thing just wasn't willing to swallow me. It was pretty embarrassing to be sitting here like this, and I felt shame creep into my skin, hot and red. I was twenty-one years old, and I was sitting here acting like a four-year-old. Fuck me, I didn't care. I just wanted out.
Frank nodded, like maybe that was the answer he was expecting. "Okay," He sat back in his chair, leaning his head against the wall as he studied me. Or at least, that's how it felt - like being studied. I was a rat with altered genes, and he was waiting for a second tail to grow.
"Do you want to talk about the weather then?" The clock was really, really loud behind me. The nerves in my back tensed. I was sure it was going to strike the hour and start meowing at any minute.
I cleared my throat, sitting forward and trying to keep my knees from shaking, or my foot from tapping. "It's um...it's sunny." It was the best I could do. If he was expecting poetry, or educating meterologist commentary, he'd be disappointed.
"That's a good observation. It tells me a lot about you. We're making progress." The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. I sighed, and finally relented.
"It's sunny, and the birds are out because it's Spring time and they're all getting ready to fuck each other and lay eggs. Flowers are coming out and people are mowing their lawns. If you want to know how I feel about that, well...it pisses me off."
I watched him nod again, and a slight smile crept over his face. "That's pretty accurate. Can I ask why it pisses you off?" The conversation had been light-hearted so far, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before Doctor Frank would get around to touchier things.
Another sigh escaped me. "Because everything's bright and happy. And I'm not."
"Why aren't you happy Jeph?" Was that rhetorical? What the fuck kind of answer did he want? 'I'm not happy because my head doesn't work right and I cut myself with razor blades to make myself feel better and the whole world found out about two weeks ago and now I'm locked up in this place'?
"I don't know. I'm just...not." Saying so shouldn't have had so much of an impact on me, but it did. I felt my lip quivering and tears sprang to my eyes. I'm such a fucking pussy sometimes. I'm a girl, I really think I am.
"It's okay Jeph. Here." He offered me a box of tissues, from which I only took one. Real men don't need tissues. Fake men don't need more than one, or at least, we pretend not to.
"Jeph, you don't have to pretend you're happy, or that things are okay," Frank began, watching me sniffle and bit and act like a total pansy. "You might not know why you feel the way you do, and right now, neither do I. But the way you feel - it's not your fault."
I sniffed again and snorted out a laugh. "Right, it has something to do with brain chemistry or something, or my genes. Or I could just be completely fucking mental."
"Could be. Or there could be deeper, psychological reasons behind it all. But that's why we're here, to help you figure all this out. This is a dumb question, but would you consider yourself depressed?"
"I'm bursting into tears in your office for no reason. I'd say yes."
Frank chuckled. "Yeah, that's a good point. Can I ask you another question? You don't have to answer if you don't know."
I nodded. He wasn't so bad.
"Do you think you cut because you're depressed, or you're depressed because you cut?" Now there was a zinger. I realized I had no idea.
"I um...I don't know. Both, I guess."
"Okay." It seemed to be an acceptable enough answer for him, and I watched him flip a bit more through my file. "Do you harm yourself in any way other than cutting? Hair pulling, wrist banging?"
I shook my head.
"What do you use?"
"Razor blade." I whispered.
"Where on your body do you cut?"
"Arms." I choked out.
He looked up from the file for a minute to study me. "Are you alright?" Any idiot could tell I wasn't. My stomach felt like a swarm of termites had taken up residence. They were nibbling away at my insides. Not a pleasant feeling.
"Yes."
Frank arched an eyebrow. "You don't look alright."
I shrugged. "I don't like talking about it. It's not a problem anyway."
"No one likes talking about their personal stuff Jeph. But that's why you're here, so we can talk about it and try to figure out how to make you feel better."
"I feel fine." Other than being sick to my stomach and needing a cigarette and a few good slices to my arm, I really did feel fine. If I just didn't have to be here...
"You just said you thought you were depressed." He stated, a bit flat as he frowned.
"Yeah, maybe. But I don't need to be in an inpatient program for that do I? Shit, I don't even cut myself that bad." I said, looking anywhere but his eyes. Maybe Frank was a nice guy. But he didn't understand, did he? He didn't know how good it felt to rip up your own skin, how emormous and immediate the relief was.
"No. But you do need to be in intense therapy for self-injurers. You were hospitalized, Jeph. Whether you meant to hurt yourself that badly or not, it still means you're a danger to yourself. Ergo, you need to be here."
I couldn't really argue with that point, even if I didn't agree with it. The problem with having a million thoughts a minute flying through your brain often means it's hard to pick out one response or argument. I sat back in silent frustration. "I don't need to be here," I mumbled. "If you'd just give me something to take for the depression, then I'd be happy and I wouldn't need to cut myself. Problem solved."
"That's one theory. But let's not jump to conclusions, okay? Let's just get on with the questions."
I shrugged. Outside, the birds were loud. The clock was loud. The carpet under my feet was loud. Everything was too loud.
The next thirty minutes were spent going through a series of pretty simple question. How old was I? Was I in school? Did I get along with my parents? Why? Why not? Did I have any siblings? Did I have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Did I know of any history of mental illness in my family? Was I allergic to any medications? On a scale of one to ten, how depressed was I? Did I have thoughts of suicide?
I just went on and on. Most things were simple yes or no questions, but I could tell by the long pauses between them that Frank wanted me to elaborate. I didn't though, or at least not more than I had to. We didn't talk any more about SI until the end of the session. Frank set down the note pad he'd been furiously scribbling down my answers on, and leaned back to blow out a sigh.
"Not so bad, huh?" he asked, a wry grin on his face.
I shrugged. "Any old shrink could ask me those questions. I don't get why I have to be in a hospital for it." Really. While I was zoning out and answering questions, I think I really had convinced myself that nothing was wrong with me. Sure, I was a little down sometimes. Well, a lot of the time. But I could deal with that.
"One more question?" Frank was sitting forward, arching his eyebrows. He had really pretty eyes, I noticed. Like a puppy dog, only warmer. I nodded yes, hoping to get it over with so I could leave and go back to my room.
"Jeph, can you show me your arms?" His voice was a lot gentler now, and it took me a few seconds to even understand what he'd said.
"Um..."
"Jeph, I need to see. More importantly, you need to see. SI isn't something we can all just ignore and hide under long sleeves. Tell me something," He gazed at me intently, and for a moment I almost gave in and allowed myself to find comfort in his warm eyes. "Do you want to stop cutting? Be honest."
Did I want to stop? Of course I did. But that was simply out of the question. Cutting was a desire a woke up with every morning, a blood red thoughts that stayed in my head all day every day until I couldn't stand it. It was an addiction, I knew that, but who says all addictions are bad? As far as I was concerned, it was the only way in the world that I could cope with the emotional stress I felt every day.
"Well...no, honestly, I don't want to stop. But..." I thought for a minute, trying to find the words. "But I think I'd like to stop needing and wanting to cut. If it wasn't something I wanted to do all the time, then I probably wounldn't do it."
Frank nodded. It was the answer he'd been expecting, and he seemed to accept it easily. "Okay, I can understand that. So now we have a goal: get you to stop wanting to hurt yourself. Does that sound fair?"
I shrugged. Nothing about this seemed fair. And I was pretty damn sure that short of brainwashing me, there was no chance in hell that anybody could ever make me stop wanting to cut. "I guess."
"Alright then. So why don't you want to show me your arms?" he asked.
Again, I offered a shrug. "I dunno. I guess...I guess I just don't like for people to see, that's all."
"Is it because you don't want to hurt other people? Is it because looking at them upsets you? Are you ashamed of them?" I was beginning to dislike the fact that this guy was probably a hell of a lot smarter than me. He had a fancy looking certificate mounted on his wall, so I was assuming he had a buttload of intelligence. I hated premeditatively walking into being outsmarted.
I sighed, long and low. Yeah, shame, that was it. "It's because cutting is something that's...I dunno, taboo? People look down on it. Even though I don't feel like it's wrong, society's vote outweighs mine. Society makes me ashamed of my scars, but I'm not."
Frank nodded again. "Well, that's a good point Jeph, it definitely makes sense. So let me tell you something." Frank got up and walked around his desk to sit on the edge of the sofa across from me. I suppose there was some symbolism in getting the desk out of the way of our conversation, like he wanted to show me we were equals or something. I liked Frank, he was a cool guy, but I wasn't sure I was ready to trust him just yet.
"Jeph, while we're in this room, we're not society. This "society" you talk about, they're a bunch of ignoramuses. People look down on SI because they don't understand it; it's not something they've ever felt the need to do to themselves. But while you and me are this room, or anywhere else for that matter, you need to know that I'm not going to judge you." He sighed and sat back against the couch, rubbing at his eyes. "I don't know what's going through your mind right now, I probably never will and it's still too early into your stay here for any progress to have been made. But I do know that, whether you agree or not, you need help understanding all these emotions you're feeling. That's my job - help you sort it all out. That's all. I'm not here to judge you or tell you that what you're doing is wrong. I've seen a lot of scars during my career, and believe me, seeing yours isn't going to make me think any different of you."
I blinked, a little taken aback. The man was right. He was a professional, and there really wasn't any reason for me to be afraid of showing him the damage I'd inflicted on my skin. He wasn't the enemy - my mind was the enemy. And he wanted to help me understand and tame it.
That still didn't really explain why my hands shook as I grudgingly pulling up my hoodie sleeves. Maybe my head really was just as fucked up as everyone thought it was. Here I was trying to convince a psychiatrist that I wasn't ashamed of what I did to myself and that there was nothing wrong with it, and yet my heart was still beating a mile a minute because a part of me was terrified.
Both sleeves up, I held my arms out to Frank, wrists up, for him to see. He didn't lean forward or examine them closely, but I knew he was taking in the same damage I saw - scores of identical thin red lines over soft, pale skin, thicker pink scars that had hardened over time. I small shiver worked it's way down my spine whenever my eyes wandered over the gigantic gash on my right forearm, still held together with thread and staples from my recent hospital visit. It looked so violent, so angry, and I remembered the rage inside me that I had directed at myself when I did it. All of the scars looked angry. Thin ones ran across thicker ones, criss-crossing one another in a dizzying pattern of marred flesh.
Frank finally sat forward, nodding his head and looking me in the eye. "Thank you Jeph. That's all I wanted to see."
I stared back down at my arms for a few more seconds before pulling my sleeves down. It felt good to let someone other than me see them for once, but I still wasn't used to the feeling. They were the evidence of my inner battles, no one elses, and I didn't like sharing.
Back behind his desk, Frank shuffled a few papers. "Jeph, I need to know that you're willing to work with me here. It says a lot that you're willing to show me, but I need to know that you're at least going to put some effort into the time we spend together here. I know you say you don't want to stop cutting, but are you at least willing to work with me and try to understand why you do it?"
I wondered if the images on my arms had scared him, if maybe they were worse than he'd been expecting. Frank looked a little worried. I nodded, a bit reluctant. What choice did I have anyway? "Yeah. That's fair."
He smiled. "Good," Pulling a paper out of his desk and handing it over to me, he explained, "Then the first thing you need to do is sign this paper."
Looking at it, I tried to read, but it seemed to be a lot of legal mumbo jumbo to me. I thought my mother had filled out all my paperwork already. "What is it?"
"It's a contract," he explained, sitting back down and fiddling with a pencil. "Among other things, it says that if you sign it, you're promising not to harm yourself during your stay here."
I looked at him, dubious. "That's a lot easier said than done."
"I know it is. But it's part of the program. If other patients who are trying to get better see you doing it, it might trigger them to start again. And if we ever want to get to the root of your feelings, then sometimes the best way for that to happen is for you to just stop for a while, step away from razor blades and start looking at things from a different perspective." He grinned. "Plus, you can get kicked out if we find out you're hurting yourself. As much as you don't want to be here Jeph, I really don't think you want to get kicked out."
He had that right, I sure as fuck didn't want to be here. My stomach was already tying itself in knots thinking about leaving the tiny office and doing stressful things, like meeting other people and shit. But on the other hand, getting kicked out would probably get me in a hell of a lot of trouble with the state - they were the ones, after all, who had signed a court order saying I had to be here. Prison didn't sound like fun at the moment.
Taking the pen he offered, I scribbled down some lines that vaguely resembled my name, and handed the paper back to him.
"Alright then. I guess we're done for today." Looking down at my file, he marked down a few things. "I want to meet with you three times a week for now, and maybe as you start settling in here, it'll be just once or twice a week. But remember, my door's always open. Same with the other doctors; if you're ever feeling upset, or you're having trouble sticking to the contract, or you just want to talk, we're all open ears. Any questions?" Frank had come back around to sit in front of me on the sofa again, hands clasped before him. He looked pleased with how the session had gone.
I shrugged. I couldn't think of any questions. "Nope. Can I go now?"
Frank laughed. "Yeah. It was good meeting you Jeph," he stood up, walking me to the door and holding it open for me. "I'll see you back on Wednesday then, okay?"
I nodded, throwing him a tight, appreciative smile as I hurried out into the waiting room. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."
I liked Frank, I really did, but I still couldn't stop the trip-hammer feeling in my chest as I hurried out into the hallway. My arms itches, my shoulders itched. I could deal with being here against my will, but I wasn't sure I could cope with complete strangers letting themselves into my personal life and trying to change my ways. I'd meant it when I'd told Frank that I wanted to stop wanting to SI. But the thought of losing the one and only outlet I'd ever known for all my feelings was scary as hell.
Scratching at my wrist, I kept my gaze on the tiled floor beneath my feet, replaying the entire session over in my head and trying not to have some kind freak out panic attack about being here. As I rounded the corner to the hallway I was staying on, I didn't even see the other boy coming at me under we'd collided full force and fallen into a tangle of arms and legs and dirty-blonde hair. Dazed, for a few seconds, all I could take in were the dangerously thin limbs, slightly goofy, apologetic smile, a head of dirty blonde hair, and the saddest pair of eyes I had ever seen.
A/N: Thank you all for reading! I hope the chapter didn't disappoint. <3s, Mo