Danyul Goes To Therapy: Cuts & Cycles (Session 3)

I shuffle into what's becoming the familiar waiting room of the mental health centre. I like when I walk in and I feel that 70's feel wash over me. I always think of that Al Pacino film, "The Panic In Needle Park". What a fucking classic. I notice the magazine are the same ones they've had for a month. I'm not impressed. I'd donate some reading material, but I don't think they'd appreciate my particular style. **Glances into my bag to see biography of Andrei Chikaltio and the third book in the Dexter instalment.** 

I'm anxious to see Hermonie today. Very anxious. I almost want to tackle her down and hug her. That wouldn't be professional at all. I look from my watch to the door to the brochure rack and back again. 5 minutes to go. Don't be late. I've been dying to talk to her for over a week, but our session had to be rescheduled for things beyond our control. I smiled over the phone when I told her it was cool, but inside I was crying hysterically. I look at the brochures again. It's the same goddamn shit. I listen to the ticking of the clock and debate whether I should show her some of the new cuts. Tick, tock, Danny, it's almost showtime. My stomach bubbles with anxiety and I attempt to drink it down with cranberry-lime water. (When did I get so fuckin' fancy?) If she tells me she doesn't have room for me next week I'm going to implode right there in her office.

Per usual, I trail after like a ghost into her office. I take my place in the large overstuffed armchair closest to the window so I can look out at the makeshift brick fence and the sky. Part of me hopes a bird runs into that thing. I've taken my hoodie off and haven't put it back on. I've made my choice. "How are you doing?" "Tired." Tired doesn't even begin to cover it. Tired is such a vague concept too. They expect me to gush to a person 40 minutes a week and feel better? The idea is moronic. I told her that it runs deeper than just a physical tired. I wave my arm in a cheery wave as she settles into her seat behind the desk. I lose my anxiety about wanting to speak to Hermione as soon as we are nestled in her office. I want to just run and hide. I'd give anything not to be there anymore. "Besides tired how are you doing?" I mean, all she really needed to do was look at me. I look like microwaved dogshit. I don't start with that.

"You mean other than physically tired because of the cutting?" Normally I would never draw attention to my self-harm and never EVER this early in getting to know a new therapist. I don't know why I wanted her to see them. It's possible because she kind of looks and reminds me of Jessica and on some level I want Jessica to see beyond the cuts, see what they mean.I think it's the glasses that reminds me of her. They're a similar shape. There I go again, drawing parallels. Maybe these associations are a large part of my problem. I'll make a not to explore that further. I want her to see that every line, every switch of the blade tells a story, expresses a thought and a feeling. It doesn't matter if Hermonie understands, I'm focused on Jessica. Mainly because I spend a lot of time with her. I want her to see, to understand and not be disgusted or call them stupid like she does. I want her to understand on the level that Chubby does, that its a physical manifestation of the anguish inside. The act is ritualised, cathartic even when there is no suicidal intent behind the actions, they are so beautifully calming. 

"I am worried about you." Her voice cuts through my thoughts. A little red alarm went off inside. Keep calm, Daniel, you know what to do. You steer this ship out of enemy waters. Don't like the law get your booty. Sail back to the Island of Misfit Toys where you can safely hide until the authorities stop looking for you. They'll get bored eventually. They always do. "Oh? Why?" Play it cool boy. You got this! "Because you could seriously hurt yourself." I'm almost offended. "I've been doing this for 16 years. Longer than you've been a therapist." I throw in that little barb. I want her to know who's the real know-it-all when it comes to self-harm. "You could knick a vein, get an infection, accidentally kill yourself." It's almost laughable. "I'm always in control. It may not feel like it or even look like it, but I know. I know where my veins are, I spent time learning so I could be productive." I realise that looks a little bizarre and counterproductive. "I've only had one infection in the almost two decades I've been doing this. I'm careful each time. I learn each blade before I explore a bit with it. Safe limits."  She looks half impressed, half horrified. I swell with pride. I want to tell her more, I don't know why. What kind of vagina Devil magic is this? 

"You could get an infection in the scar tissue." She says these things like they've never occurred to me. It goes hit me just how lucky I've been. I've done all sorts of horrible shit to my body and yet it keeps bouncing back. One day it won't be able to. Am I really bothered by that? Do I really care? Had I even considered the possibility that it wouldn't rebound? My thoughts swirl around me. "Dan?" The room comes back into focus. "I know. Don't worry about me, I'm fine." Those words that are the perfect lie. Maybe I am fine. Maybe I'm not. Right now, I just don't know. "Chubbs...he makes the cuts good and bad." I've said it out loud. I've transitioned from liquid to solid. It's real. It's not just a thought anymore. "But I feel like I'm at the end of my rope. Things are progressing beyond me." Am I admitting to her I don't have the skills to function as a human being? If I could feel proper regret, I think it would be washing over me right now. The little voice in my head whispers to me, "You're not even a human being." I can't argue with him. 

"I need help." Hermonie looks up from the screen. Even I'm surprised. "I need someone to help me. I can't handle my daily life sometimes. Sometimes I can't get out of bed for days, I can't do self-care." "So you need someone to keep an eye on you?" I hate that it's phrased in that way, but it's actually more realistic than I want to admit. "Yes." "Okay, we can sign you up for a programme. Someone can come to your house and help you with tasks, shopping, cleaning whatever you need help with. Sometimes these people are just companions." My loneliness taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that Chubbs will soon be out of reach, will be farther away. Sadness settles in the pit of my liver. "That would be nice." She writes down my details and tells me that we should have some answers soon. That's nice. 

I look at the clock and she tells me that we need to book our next appointment. It feels like I just walked in. I want to stay, but I know I have to leave. She picks a date and time and I scribble it down in my day planner. I really have to pee. Come on, you can do this, just ask. Don't be shy now. She won't laugh at you. "Can I go to the bathroom before I leave? Like I don't know the rules...." My voice trails off and all of a sudden my bag weighs more than I do. "Of course! You don't have to ask! Help yourself."

At least this time I wasn't too scared to ask them if I could go to the toilet. The past two times I've been too afraid and ended up weeing on a tree behind the building. I don't know what causes this social anxiety. I have a few thoughts, but nothing so major that it results in almost arrest for public exposure. Glad that I achieved a small goal that I've had since day one of coming here, I skip out into the afternoon sun, a grin plastered on my face, Pork Chop swinging from my left hand. I squeeze his little hand. "Let's go home, eat Cheetos, masturbate and watch Breaking Bad."