Page 7 of Chase
Losing out on my top college choice was bad enough, but the day I lost that crown was the saddest day of my life. I sent Mama right to the bar and after a bender, Daddy sent her away to a country estate for a few weeks to recover.
Gliding the razor across my skin, feeling the sharp edge slice into my flesh, and then watching my devastation bleed outta me, numbed the loss. The loss of how my parents looked at me before the pageant versus after the lost crown. I wasn’t good enough for their love.
I couldn’t seem to change the downcast look in their eyes no matter how often I tried to rise to their standards. So I kept cutting. I kept carving out my feelings and the scars became reminders of my past mistakes. I needed it like no other. It started to keep me balanced and everytime I started to feel bad, I’d try to slice it out and watch it bleed away.
My cycle of cutting hasn’t stopped, even now when I feel a twinge of discomfort or anxiety, the only cure, the only thing that numbs my nerves, sadness, or anger is the slice of my skin and watching the bad drip down. It’s so satisfying when I blot it away and bandage the cut up. It’s like a fresh start.
The worst cuts happened while I was at UGA. I went too deep while using a pair of super sharp scissors when I cut open my inner thighs. I had been dropped on last night during rush and was beside myself. I couldn’t keep the big feelings inside. They hurt too much. I had to get them out and scared myself half to death with how deep I went.
I left my leg a gory mess and I swear it took hours for it to stop bleeding. At one point, my anxiety about it got so bad, I thought I was gonna bleed out. My cutting has never been aboutending my life. It’s to make me better. This time, I had gone too far. I knew in my heart that I had to do something about it.
I saw a flyer tacked up on a resource board in the hallway and snatched it up. I stuffed it in my bag before I could chicken out and went to talk to a professional. I had already been shunned from the girls I rushed with and my new roommate was so enamored with her new sisters, she never spent another minute with me. There wasn’t anyone for me to be embarrassed in front of about getting help. No one at home knew and hardly anyone at UGA paid me any mind after rush.
I really clicked with my therapist and stuck with therapy. I gained some insight into my anxiety and self-injurious behavior. The cut represents the circumstance that caused the emotions, the blood represents the feelings, and the healing of the cut represents my ability to move on. To try again. I have trouble tolerating uncertainty, can’t stomach losing control, have intrusive and unwanted thoughts, and I self-harm to get them out.
By the time my last session rolled around, I was feeling better. I promised my counselor that I’d get set up with someone here and continue what I started. She wanted me to keep at it and to continue to explore my feelings.
When I came to Havenwood I was running away, fleeing every expectation placed on me. It felt like I was kicking the heavy weighted blankets of assumptions off of me. I instantly felt lighter.
I’ve been raised o act and be a certain way, fit into a mold, and to smile for everyone else but myself. I decided to shed that skin. It never felt right anyway. Never felt like me.
Last August when I walked up the welcome table in the dorm lobby and stretched out my hand to introduce myself to the Residence Director, I felt it. I could be whoever I wantedto be. No one knew me here; they didn’t blink an eye when I mentioned my last name. I had a fresh start.
When I first met Evie, I was reluctant to share some of who I was. When I heard myself talking, I could’ve sworn it was about someone else. Like I was sharing secrets when I told her how much I love reading and that I wanted to be an editor. Pieces of me that Mama thought were downright silly. “You’ll be busier than popcorn on a skillet. You won’t have time for a job or to read your silly books, you’ll be runnin’ your household, hostin’ parties, and charity events. Raisin’ my grandchildren.” She couldn’t fathom me wanting anything more than that. She thought my dreams were full of fluff and firmly believed that my going to college was strictly for majoring in MRS.
Since I had outright refused to rekindle things with Jason and made it clear I’d never set foot on a pageant stage again, she became focused on my dating life. If I tried to talk about my classes, she’d be quick to belittle my academic efforts.
It’s absolutely absurd that her biggest fear is that I’ll end up picking a career over a man after school. She honest to God thinks I’m in college to solely focus on finding a husband. Her voice is loud and smells like chardonnay even in my head, “You must keep yourself available to support your husband's career and his goals, his dreams will become yours, you’ll see.”
She always made it sound like that kinda life should be enough for me, that I wasn’t worthy of wanting more than that. That I was selfish for wanting more for myself than what everyone expected.
Davis always had big football dreams and was encouraged to reach for the stars as soon as our parents saw him throw his first touchdown. He was groomed at a young age to be a star quarterback and Daddy allowed him to pursue his own path as long as it led to the NFL.
If he wasn’t drafted right outta college, he’d have to join the Army. Davis went to quarterback camps, had elite private coaches and trainers, and was scouted early on. Mama hushed me up whenever I told her I wanted to try something else. “Honestly Sloane, you’re such a pretty girl, isn’t that enough?” To me it never is.
I maintained my English degree when classes started last semester and joined the Havenwood Harold to get my feet wet with editing. I also joined clubs in the Performing Arts Program. I decided to sing for fun instead of for competition. I didn’t tell either of my parents that I had a role in the Winter Showcase. They wouldn’t dream of coming to support me anyway.
Mama was so embarrassed by my fall from grace she brought me to our family pastor to set me straight when I came home after my first semester at UGA.
She had no idea about my cutting and about me pursuing my own therapy. She didn’t know anything about my racing thoughts and feelings that plagued me. She was convinced something was wrong with me, that a part of me was broken and needed fixing from God above. And because I was too ashamed to share the depths of my despair but also desperate for her empathy, I went with her.
I remember her telling the pastor, “I’ve tried my best with her but she’s a lost cause. We’ve given her all the tools to succeed and she just can’t seem to properly apply herself.”
After Mama left his office, I spoke to Pastor Bill about some things. I knew he had a few degrees, one of them being in psychology and counseling so I figured I might as well make the most of my time if I had to sit with him for the next hour.
I also knew he wouldn’t be able to talk to Mama or Daddy about what I said and maybe part of me wanted them to be told no if they asked for details.
I gave him the cliff notes version of some major things that had happened and how it all impacted me. I by no means mentioned my cutting, but I did mention how upset I get over things. He listened and made me feel heard.
He talked to me about anxiety and it was pretty much in line with what my counselor at UGA had said. By the time Mama picked me up she thought I was cured for good.
On the drive home, she made me swear on a stack of family bibles that I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone about having some issues that needed “professional attention.”
She mentioned several times on that drive that I needed to pull myself up and get my head on straight because I was stressing her and my father out. It was another reason for her to chastise me. She left for a cocktail party that night and I couldn’t help but think she was going to drink away the disappointment I’d caused her.
It hasn’t been brought up since. Like it’s some dirty little secret. Davis is the only one who checks to make sure I’m okay and always knows when I’m not.
I shake my head and the intrusive thoughts tighten their grip as I recall parts of my past. I give myself a once over before grabbing my water bottle and bag. I don’t love who I see staring back at me in the mirror we have on the wall by our front door. I’m trying but it’s hard.I haven’t liked me in a long while.
