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Was absolutely horrible. If those kids treated me like trash, she treated me like the shit she flushed every morning. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Nothing I wore was ever straight enough. She was so small-minded, such a weak woman, but I looked up to her because the mom I had didn’t want me.
But Gwen didn’t want me either.
She made it a point to tell me I was just a check, but I saw that she genuinely cared for some of my foster siblings.
Just not me.
Nobody ever cared about me but Cassius.
I let out a shaky breath and swallow roughly. Sarah smiles and tips her head at me. “Another day?”
“Yeah, another day,” I mumble, feeling like an utter failure. Sarah must have some magic therapy dust, because she holds up a hand to stop my thoughts in their tracks.
“Therapy isn’t magic. It takes time. All these things you want to discuss can happen in small doses.”
She did explain that during the first session. Apparently, therapy is different for each person. She insisted we didn’t have to deep-dive into my trauma right off the bat. I could tell her as much or as little as I wanted. That we could either do this a few times or for the foreseeable future. Basically, it’s up to me, and there’s something so…nice about that.
“That makes me feel better,” I admit, giving her a genuine smile.
She smiles back and gestures at her pad. “Do you still want to talk about the cutting?”
“I think so.” Even though it scares me to bring this up, I do want to do whatever I can to better myself. And, like I said, it’s time.
“We can stop at any time,” she reminds me. When I nod, she sits back. “I’ll let you take the lead then.”
“It started in middle school. I don’t even know why I thought about it, truthfully. I want to say that it was something dramatic, but it really wasn’t. I just kind of did it.”
That’s not the greatest explanation, but I don’t know what else to say. I just wanted to feel…something different other than terrified and humiliated. I wanted to feel in control. Maybe it’s different for others, but that’s how it was for me.
“And how did it make you feel?”
“Good? Bad? I’m not too sure.” I shrug. “It was just something I did to forget for a moment. Is that normal?”
“We’re not comparing experiences here,” she tells me. “Just speakyourtruth, and that’s what matters.”
I nod. “I did it once, and then every time I felt sad, I’d do it again. It’s almost like it became a habit.”
It was like a compulsion. My go-to. Whenever anything bad happened, I’d take it out on myself. I didn’t feel good enough, but at the same time, I felt like too much. Too gay. Too out there. But not smart or funny enough. So, it became something I just did. Again and again and again until my arms were littered with the scars, proof of what I perceived as a weakness.
“Did anyone know?” she asks.
“Cass did.”
“And?”
“He tried to get me to stop when it first started, but I just couldn’t. Ihadto do it.”
The first time Cassius saw the scars, he was heartbroken. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so sad, so miserable, so terrified. But he never looked at me with pity or disgust, only understanding. He’d plead with me, but I wouldn’t listen.
“Why did you stop?”
“We left the second we turned eighteen. Moved to Miami and put it all behind us.”
And that’s what it felt like. It was a breath of fresh air being away from the torture, away from the small-minded people we were raised with. Don’t get me wrong, there are sucky people everywhere, but here in Miami, there are more understanding and accepting people.
“Did you really put it all behind you?”
I pause and consider that. “I thought I did. I haven’t done it since.”
