It Cuts Both Ways

by Shelley White
^{(creative writers at http://www.morewriting.co.uk)}

I needed to tell them about my worries but Mum and Dad were too busy working to have time to talk to me. Dad was a partner in a busy law firm and Mum managed an advertising company. Most of my friends talked to their parents about all sorts of things. I envied them. I had no reason to complain about material things, though, because I got more pocket-money than them and lots of new clothes, the latest mobile phone or make-up.

But when it came to GCSE time, there was a proviso.

‘Zara, if you get all ‘A’ grades, you can have a kitten.’

Mum knew I’d always wanted a cat, so she must have thought this would be a good incentive for me to do well.

It worked. I studied extra hard and when I achieved all grade As, I was rewarded with the cutest ball of fluff. Pom-Pom loved to play. Sometimes her tiny claws scratched my bare arms but it was only a game, the scratches were like tickles.

After GCSEs, came my first year of ‘A’ levels at college. I had to step up a gear because there was so much work. I worried whether I’d be able to cope. Dad was making plans for me to join him in the firm but that meant getting a law degree. Mum was checking out which universities were best for law. I wasn’t sure if this was what I wanted, and felt I was being swept along in the tide. Amy, my sister, sailed through her ‘A’ levels and came top in her first year exams at university. They expected me to do as well as her. But she was brainy, with a photographic memory while I had to work till 11 o’clock at night to be half as good as her.

I tried to tell my parents that I was having doubts about my future.

‘Dad, I’m not sure if I’m cut out to be a solicitor.’

‘It’s bit late telling us that now, Zara,’ he said, scratching his head, ‘It’s all been arranged.’

‘Dad, I don’t know if I can do it, though.’

‘Don’t be silly, Zara. Of course you can,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘Oh yes, I meant to tell you before, Mum and I were wondering if you’d like to start riding lessons.’

‘Riding lessons? That’d be brilliant.’

I started riding lessons and loved every minute. The only thing was, when I came home, I had to get stuck into my work. Then, the worries and doubts entered my head again. Was law what I really wanted to do? How was I going to get through all this work? Why wouldn’t they listen to me instead of bombarding me with gifts? I knew they wanted the best future for me but couldn’t they see I wasn’t happy?

I’d been at college a couple of months when everything started to get on top of me. I had to do extra work at home to keep up with the others. I tried to get to grips with my maths homework, problems to do with circumferences of circles, but the more I tried to understand the theory, the more confused I became. I panicked about not finishing it. My head was spinning and I felt dizzy. My compasses slipped across the paper as my hands trembled. The points were sharp but wouldn’t stay on the paper. The next thing I knew, I’d scratched the top of my left arm with them. It didn’t hurt a bit. In fact, it felt good – like steam being released from a pressure cooker. I drew the points over my arm again and watched the fine trickle of blood bubble bright red down to my elbow. I felt my worries fall away. I breathed out and all my fears vanished. I felt free.

Thank goodness the blood didn’t stain my tee shirt. I dabbed the cuts with toilet paper and flushed it down the loo. Evidence gone. I went back to my room and got into bed.

‘Zara, what’re you doing still up at midnight?’ said Mum, coming into my room.

She must have seen the light shining under my door.

‘I can’t sleep. I’ll just finish this chapter of my book. It’ll send me off to sleep.’

‘Just a minute, Zara. What are those scratches on your arm?’

‘Oh, those? That’s from Pom-Pom.’

‘You shouldn’t let her get so excited, Zara.’

‘It’s OK, Mum, she’s only playing.’

That was a close one – she believed me. I thought about trying to tell her what I was worried about but she cut in with ...

‘All right. I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow. I need my sleep if I’m going to win that contract. Night-night.’

She shut the door behind her and I was alone again.

I carried on cutting myself with my compasses each night for the rest of the week. It made me feel better so I kept doing it. I knew I had to be careful about covering my arms in future. Not to let anyone, especially my parents, see my scars. They might think I was going mad. I wasn’t. I felt very clear-headed when I was cutting myself. It felt good, so good.

The following week, I had to do an essay on ‘Twelfth Night’ for an English Literature assignment. I’d read the play - twice - and made lots of notes but I was struggling to put all my ideas together. I wracked my brains to work out which bits to put where. I was completely muddled. I worried that I wouldn’t get my essay in on time, I’d fail and get a bad report. Then Mum and Dad would do my head in harping on about Amy doing so well, Amy coming top, Amy, Amy, Amy!

I felt like screaming and running away. I banged my fists on my computer desk. Hard. Up popped my pencil sharpener out of my pencil-case onto the floor. I picked it up. That blade looked sharp. Very sharp. It was simple to remove it with my nail file. I cut my right arm this time. It was easy, even using my left hand. There was more blood than last time and it took longer to stop. The cutting was my silent scream that came from deep inside my body. I felt so much lighter afterwards, all floaty and peaceful. I wasn’t bothered about the essay anymore, or anything else. I dried my arm with tissues, wiped the blade and hid it under the bed.

That lovely feeling didn’t last long. Next day at school, I still hadn’t started my essay. I felt anxious again. My worries weighed me down once more. I needed to go back to my bedroom and cut myself with my little blade, to feel all my troubles float away, never come back. But that was the problem - they did come back. I stared out of the window at the kids on the playing field wishing I was six years old again, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Got time for dreaming, have we, Zara?’ said Miss Hall. ‘I would have thought you, of all people, would be paying attention. Yours is the only essay I’m still waiting for.’

‘Sorry, Miss, I, I ...’

I felt my face go red. I bit my lip to stop myself crying. I rubbed the top of my arm and thought about my blade and how that would make it all go away once I got home. Miss Hall looked me straight in the eye, as if she were trying to read my mind. I looked at my shoes to escape her gaze. After the lesson, she called me back.

‘Zara, you’re worrying me. Your work recently hasn’t been up to your usual standard. I know you’re capable of writing that essay. Is there something worrying you? Anything I can help you with at all?’

She was kind and made me feel at ease. I told her how I was feeling and why, but not about the cutting. That was my secret and I wasn’t telling anyone, least of all a teacher.

‘Zara, would you like me to speak to your parents? I’d have to clear it with the Deputy Head first. Is that OK with you?’

‘I don’t know. They’ll go ballistic.’

I started crying and couldn’t find my hankie so I wiped my face on my sleeve.

‘The thing is, Miss Hall, Amy’s doing so well. I can’t keep up with her.’

‘Look, put Amy out of your mind,’ she said passing me a tissue. ‘It’s you we’re talking about. I’m sure they’ll understand if I explain how you’re feeling.’

‘All right, Miss, yes.’

It was a relief. Somebody was listening, at last.

That night Mum, Dad and I talked it all over. Miss Hall had made it easier for me to explain to them. They decided it would be best for us all to have a holiday. I suppose they thought it would relieve the stress. We spent Easter in Jamaica, swimming and chilling out. It was so relaxing, I forgot my worries and felt loads better.

However, when we returned home, things began to go wrong. They arranged private tuition to help me with maths. They pressurised me about how important it was to get good grades. I tried telling them that I didn’t think law was for me but they weren’t listening. They just said it would all be fine and to keep at it a little longer, then we’d have another holiday after exams.

Another holiday sounded tempting, but what about those exams? I came out in a sweat when I thought about the work I had to do and how I was going to live up to my parents’ expectations. That’s when I started cutting myself again.

It all came to a head when Amy came home one weekend. She bounced into my bedroom when I was reaching under the bed for my knife.

‘What’re you doing down there, Zara?’

‘Nothing. I’ve lost an earring.’

‘Let me have a look,’ she said, dropping to her knees.

‘No, it’s ok.’

‘Come on, Zara, what are you hiding under there?’

‘Nothing, honest.’

She put her hand under the bed and pulled out my knife.

‘Zara, what on earth have you been doing?’

She held my hands and inspected my arms. I felt ashamed.

‘Zara, what’s been going on?’

She looked horrified.

‘Nothing.’

I was crying now.

‘Darling, let me help you. Please tell me.’

I couldn’t hide it now she’d seen my scars and my knife. We decided we had to speak to Mum and Dad. It was easier to explain how I felt when I had Amy to support me. This time they listened. They were shocked and both cried. They asked me to forgive them for putting so much pressure on me. They wanted to know what I was thinking of doing in the future. I haven’t decided yet, but I think it will be something to do with art, maybe clothes designing or photography. They heard me out, everything I had to say.

‘You know we only want the best for you, darling,’ said Dad putting his arm round me. ‘Please, you mustn’t hurt yourself any more. You’re precious.’

‘Yes, above all, we want you to be well and happy,’ said Mum, her eyes full of tears.

‘Thank you for listening,’ I said and we all had a big hug.

Next day, Mum didn’t go to her office. She took me to the doctor’s. He was very understanding and didn't make me feel odd in any way.

‘I’ll arrange for you to have some counselling with someone specially trained so you can talk about your feelings. We’ll see how you get on. You can always come back and see me anytime, though.’

I had regular appointments with my counsellor after that. She didn’t look disgusted when I told her about the cutting. She’d already helped a few other girls and boys like me, so I didn’t feel like I was a freak. We built up a good relationship over the following months. I told her about my worries and she gave me good advice.

‘Zara, if ever you’re thinking about self-harming because things get on top of you, stop for a minute. Think about something else. Go and do something else.’

‘You make that sound easy but it isn’t. It’s really difficult.’

‘I know, Zara. It’s not going to happen overnight, but you can train yourself to do this. When you start to feel bad, go for a walk or look something up on your computer, or read a book until that feeling has passed.’

‘I’ll try, honest, I will.’

The sessions weren’t a magic pill. Early on, it was still tempting to cut myself. I tried to block it out and concentrate on other things, such as taking photos and putting them in an album, or designing clothes in my sketch book. Once or twice when I felt really down and there was nobody there to talk to, I remembered what my counsellor told me about the Samaritans – trained people at the end of the phone who are simply there to listen to anything you have to say, twenty-four hours a day. You can find their number in the telephone book. They don’t judge you – they just listen and try to help you by talking to you. However bad it gets, they're always there to speak to you. It’s a freephone number, so you’re not charged.

Mum and Dad took a greater interest in my studies and hobbies and seemed to watch out for me more than previously. Most of all, they were there when I needed them. Amy and I became closer. She turned out to be the best sister anyone could ever have.