story

Story One

This is the story of a girl Astra. It explains how she finally opened up to her psychiatrist, and the begining of the story of her life. It can be triggering to cutters. I'm not promising a good story, I'm just promising a story, so if I dissapoint you, sorry.

The Doctor sat, smiling encourangly at the tiny woman-child. She said "you look like you've seen too much of the world babe," trying to get on a personal level with the patient. The woman-child pulled her knees to her chest protectively, nodding slowly, "maybe I have...maybe I have..."
Finally the patient put her feet onto the ground and studied the doctor. It was unclear as to who was diagnosing who, until the doctor asked, "Will you ever let me help you?" The patient smiled slightly - almost remoresfully - "it's too late for that, doc."
The doctor left the room with a click of the door. The patient smiled. "Times up," she said in a bareuly audible voice, to no one but herself.
Later that night, the doctor sat in bed, weary but unable to sleep. She pulled out her notebook - her file on Astra. On the first page was basic informating. Height: 5 foot 3 inches. Weight: 97 pounds. Age: 17. Previous Diagnosis: Manic depressed, anorexic, self mutilator. Drugs: yes. Alchohol: yes. Smoking: no. A classic case. The doctor was angry at the patient who wouldn't open up. She was angry at herself for not opening the patient up. The doctor sighed, shut off the light, and prepared to toss and turn for hours, until sleep finally over took her body.

Astra sat indian style on an overstuffed chair. Her body looked so frail, like that of a six year old. She held a floppy, old polar bear in her lap, stroking it's head gently. She stared at the window, as she had been doing for hours, as she would continue to do for hours. To others it may have seemed she was admiring the beuatiful morning. Perhaps imagining exotic, far-away places. In reality she was staring at the forbidden world - to her it was the fruit of Eden. Filled with pleasure, but bringing pain. Astra longed to be out in it. Away from this place, on her own. But she knew that, deep down, she couldn't leave this safe place. It was the only thing that kept her alive.

The next morning Astra turned on the shower, but didn't step into it. She looked at her naked body in the mirror. Running her hands over her body she could feel her bones. That's all she was - skin and bones. Except for the scars; raised pink scars on her wrists, over her hip bones, on her lower abdomen, chest, and ankles. They marred the smoothness of her skin, most were parallel lines, some were words. DIE. FUCK UP. HATE. I HATE ME. WHORE. NEVER GOOD ENOUGH. She took slow, steady breaths, whispering, "it's okay, I'm okay, it's going to be okay." But she knew it wasn't, she wasn't, and it wasn't going to be. The mirror shattered as she threw a tiny metal trashcan at it. She paused - waiting - listening for the sounds of someone coming. Silence. She hated herself now, but at the same time knew she couldn't, no WOULDN'T, stop herself. Astra picked up a shard of glass, tracing it over her arms, trying to decide where to start, what to do. She chose her arms after all. The topside, unbroken skin. She pushed the glass gently, two inches long. In seconds blood rose, leaving a trace for her to continue. She sat down indian style, deepening and widening the cut, making sure it would scar. She did it again and again and again, until she finally had thirty-one cuts, parallel. Straight. A banging on the door brough a small scream to her lips. As panic started to overcome her she realized that she couldn't hide it, not any of it. She leaned back and waited.

Mary Ann checked her watch: 6:30. It had been an hour since Astra had entered the bathroom - too long. She banged on the door, surprised at the responding yelp. "Astra? You okay? I'm coming in." She fiddled with her keys, searching for the right one. "shit." She knew she had to hurry, she could feel it in her heart that something was very wrong. The head nurse finally slipped the right key in. Leaning against the tub sitting indian style was Astra, naked and bloody.

The doctor sat in her office, the matronly woman sitting in front of her. It was Mary Ann, the head nurse, the one who had found Astra. "What happened after you opened the door?" the doctor asked. "I saw Astra," Mary Ann started, "she was sitting on the ground indian style, her hands in her lap how she always sat. SHe looked so pale and tiny and somehow calm. She was naked and shivering, there was blood...oh it was everywhere. The mirror was shattered. Oh god...the blood, it was all over her arms and legs and on the ground with the glass was shattered everywhere. I called for Jerry, the other nurse, he picked Astra into his arms and took her into the medical room. I stayed and cleaned up the mess. Then we called you, she asked us too."
The doctor nodded, trying not to show her surprise at the patient's request to see her. "thank you so much Miss Weber, will you please send Astra in?"

Astra sat on the couch indian style with her hands in her lap. "Doctor," she said. "Patient," the doctor said. Astra had played this game since she started seeing the doctor four months ago, refusing to acknowledge that they were anything more than a doctor and a patient. "I'm going to die soon," Astra said. The doctor was silent. "I'm going to die soon Doctor, but I have a story to tell. And I can't leave until it's told." The doctor stayed silent, clicking on a tape recorder....

It all started when I was ten. I hated myself, I don't even know why. I hated myself for not being my brother, for not standing up for myself, for being me. My brother was a happy kid that everyone adored. He had friends, played sports, the family loved him. He never said the wrong things. I was never really me, even when I was a kid. I'd lose myself in books and movies, pretending I was someone else until I didn't know who I was anymore. I'd just be whoever they wanted me to be. Making them happy was all that mattered to me. I don't know who they were, but they couldn't be disapointed, somehow I'd always let them down, though. I'd cry so much for not making them happy, I could hear them in my head: "why are you crying? Do you want something to cry about? I'll give you something to cry about" they'd say to me. But they were just voices in my head, they couldn't do anything, so I did it for them. I started pressing earring posts into my skin. Then I'd pull out my hair. Chunks of my beautiful, waist-length hair would be in my hands. I finally had something to cry about - the pain I inflicted on myself.
Eventually I started cutting. I'd use plastic picnic knives. The rough, dull edges felt soothing against my skin. One day I took a fresh disposable razor blade. Using scissors and nail clippers I hacked away the plastic until I was left with two exposed razor blades. At some point I saw a 7th Heaven episode about cutting. That was the keyword, I search and searched on the internet and discovered there were other people just like me, who hurt just like I did.
One day it all changed. I came home and passed the soft pink box on the counter, not noticing it. I took off my shoes and padded over to my computer, just like I always did. I glanced over my shoulder and there it was. A pink jewlery box, open, inside was bloody tissue and fresh razor blades. Of course I recognized it, I also knew I kept the box hidden. My heart stopped and raced and jumped at the same time. I jumped at every noise, straied my ears to listen for my mom's arrival. Thoughts raced through my head, I tried to think of an explanation, of an excuse, but there wasn't one. I knew she would connect the contents of the box with the angry red markson my arm - ones that had been blamed on a friend's cat.
My mom did come home, and I don't remember what happened. I know I shut her out, not wanting to talk at all. And I remember her calling a therapist and making an appointment for me. I didn't like the older lady and her dim office, how was she supposed to help me? I don't remember what we talked about or for how long I saw her. I remember the last time though. She was trying to get me to talk about my mom, something I didn't want to do. She was just being such a bitch about it, she was hurting me. I wish I could say I would out of there with my head held high, or that I told her to leave me the fuck alone, but I didn't. I whimpered and probably crawled out. My mom stayed there, talking, I don't know what about.
One day my mom found a letter I had written. Remember how I found cutting on the internet? I also found a very large support group too. I wrote the letter with the intent of e-mailing it out, because I didn't have a chance to get on my computer. She became so angry because in it I had said I was afraid of her. I was sitting on the couch, she had her hand on my neck, cutting off my air supply. Asking me in a mocking voice "are you afraid of me now?" I'll never forget the look in her eyes, so wild, so filled with hate. I didn't understand how she could hate me so much, I was her daughter, her own flesh and blood, but to this day I'm convinced that deep down she really hated me. I convinced myself that not even my own mom could love me, that I was just a worthless piece of shit. I didn't see myself as something someone could hate, I was generally nice and outgoing and tried to make people smile. I knew that there had to be a part of me I couldn't see, that my sould had to be so ugly that my own MOTHER couldn't love me. I had to have a deformed, ugly, evil soul.

For a while I stopped hurting myself, I don't even know why. This was in eighth grade. Up until that point no one had ever guessed I was a cutter. If anything I was seen as being overly happy. Later, a friend would tell me that she saw me like this: I saw you and you were so beautiful. You were happy, smart, nice, popular, you flirted with everyone and everyone loved you. If anyone had told me that you were hurting yourself I would have told them no, not Astra, not Perfect Astra, nothing bad can touch her." That's not how those years were for me at all, but that's how they saw me. I fooled everyone.