“Come on Peter, show me your arms.”
He sighs and lifts up his sleeves as he prepares himself for the daily routine that has been occurring since last Monday.
“May, I didn’t do anything, see?”
His aunt shook his head.
“Show me your stomach.”
Peter lifts his shirt above his waist, his cheeks flushing red from humiliation.
“Look. I’m fine May, why can’t you trust me?”
His aunt glared, but he could see the tears starting to form in his eyes.
Silence.
“You know why, Peter. ”
It's true. He did know.
Peter avoided his aunts gaze.
“Now show me your legs.”
He clenched his fists in frustration as he lifted one leg out of his sweatpants and the other followed, dropping them next to him and standing still.
His hands fell to his sides as his aunt seemed pleased with what she saw, and walked out, leaving him to redress.
An idiot. How could you? Why were you so stupid.
Nobody likes you.
If you ran away you wouldn’t be a burden anymore.
Peter was so tired of being tired. Numbness gnawed at his head, like the drugs he had been lectured on refusing ever since he was a child, it fogged his insides, making him empty to the world surrounding him.
His eyes watered, a noise escaped through the back of his throat, and no matter how badly he wanted to cry, the saltwater in his tear ducts never fell. Teetering upon the edge.
Just like him.
He wanted to cry.
He didn’t.
He didn’t want to cry.
He did.
Wrapped in his blanket, sobbing and covering his chapped lips so he wouldn't wake up anyone. It was dark. He wanted to sleep. Why was it so hard?
Peter hated the routine.
Wake up.
Snooze the Alarm.
Sleep until the next alarm buzzes and he has to get up.
Listen to sad music on the bus and watch Ned stop sitting next to him because he stopped engaging in conversation.
Try to focus in period 1. Don't cry.
Try to focus in period 2. Don't cry.
Leave his friends during break so they don't see how bad it's getting. Hope someone notices.
Try to focus in period 4. Don't cry.
Try to focus in period 5. Don't cry.
Skip any after school clubs. he just wants to go home.
Lay in bed. Can’t move. Procrastinate.
May asks what he’s doing. Take out some papers.
Working.
Cry.
Stare at the ceiling for 3 hours.
Sleep.
Wake up
Do it all over again.
Say “I’m fine.” while his eyes say “Help me.”
Everyone tells you to stop hurting yourself,
But no one tells you how.
They don't talk about how hard it is to stop yourself from relapsing.
It may look like an awful habit to someone else, but it's not a habit. It's an addiction.
No matter how long he's been clean,
It still occupies his brain on the daily.
It’s not pretty, or beautiful, or captivating.
It's devouring, disgusting, and vile.
He sat on the bus, the music playing through his earbuds giving him a headache, but a dull daily headache was better than the background noise of loud freshman kids, still excited to be in high school, their liveliness not yet stolen by the slowly corrupting school system.
He felt so numb. Why did God have to pick him? Peter knows that he shouldn't think about these things. He trusted God, as he should, but that didn’t stop him from pitying himself.
He didn’t deserve pity. He didn’t deserve a lot.
"Hey don't do that, you'll hurt yourself."
"I know."
Peter had been cutting foam with a box cutter in his photography class, and held the blade wrong, hoping his hand would slip and he could bleed again.
It slipped. He dropped the blade and looked at his hand. Ned, who was working next to him, tilted his head, looking worried.
"Did you get hurt?"
He tried to keep the disappointment out of his tone.
"No."
"Thank god, Imagine the blood on our photos."
"Yea. Imagine the blood ."
The bell rang, and Peter wasn’t done with his project.
"Mr Harrington?"
"Yes?" His teacher looked up from his laptop, smiling.
"Can I take the box cutter home? I didn’t finish cutting the frames for my pictures."
His heart was beating faster, he hoped that he wasn’t suspicious.
Peter's teacher frowned.
"I'm not supposed to lend them to anyone since it's considered a weapon-"
"I won’t hurt anyone!" Except myself, went unsaid.
Mr Harrington eyed him warily.
"Fine. Bring it back on Monday, and be careful!"
Peter grinned.
"Perfect, thank you."
He packed up, hitching his school bag on his shoulders, and walked out. A sick smile adorned his face as he walked out the school, and onto the school bus.
It dropped as he left.
He couldn't relapse.
He didn't want to.
Peter went home, zoned out, argued with May, and went to sleep, three new bandaids slapped onto his wrist.
He was okay.
He was not okay.
Peter was in his bed again, he'd given up on doing his homework. He had no energy anyways.
Pulling out his phone, he saw that Ned had left him a message.
"How are you?"
He clicked on the notification and sighed as he sent his automatic response
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
He threw his phone on the bed and curled up on himself. He could be honest. Maybe he could finally open up. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Peter thought about it and rolled over to grab his phone, hands shaking.
Opening the message again, he replied.
"Yup, thanks for asking though!"
His phone fell out of his hand and he slipped under the covers, sobbing.
Why are people asking about him? Is it that obvious?
After a week, he finally talked to MJ about it.
"You need to trust that God's got you," she had said, while chewing on one of the brownies that Peter had made, finally finding some energy in him the day before.
"I do, but that doesn't stop me from thinking about what would happen if a car ran over me, or if I got stabbed, or if May died, or-"
MJ cut him off and looked at him with pursed lips; her way of expressing worry.
"What do you mean?"
"What? I'm saying that just because I trust god doesn't mean I stop worrying."
He swallowed roughly. Did he say something wrong?
"Peter, I think you should talk to someone."
He laughed.
"I am. You ."
MJ smiled sadly, but it came out as more of a grimace.
"I mean someone older. Like a social worker or something. I think it would- it would help."
Peter frowned.
"I can't do that, adults make me nervous."
"Just think about it, okay?"
"Okay."
The bell rang. MJ picked up her books and stood up.
"I have to go Peter, alright? Message me. Getting help isnt weak. Screw toxic masculinity. Break the stigma," she declared as the thump of her combat boots slowly disappeared.
Peter sat there, his heart racing, head thumping.
Could talking to someone really help?
He was washing the dishes when he almost cut himself with a chef's knife.
He picked up the blade, suds and all, then wiped it with a sponge. Walking towards the drawer, he tilted the knife and watched the light hit the hilt.
He could do it again.
Peter entertained the idea before remembering that he was trying to stop. With a sigh, he slipped the knife in the drawer, rolled up his sleeves, and went back to the sink.
He had sent an email earlier that day to the address quickly scribbled on a yellow post-it note, courtesy of student services. It was pretty obvious that he was nervous about it, since he had ripped his nails clean off and was now doing the dishes, which surprisingly seemed to calm him down. He felt guilty.
He knows that self harm is forbidden in his religion. It's one of the first things he searched up when he had decided to start cutting.
He had felt so guilty, knowing that it was technically a sin but the buzz of excitement when he sat down with all his supplies blinded him. Until it was over.
God please forgive me , he would say over and over again, then cry and bounce his leg up and down, trying to get rid of the guilt that pressed down on his chest, piling up.
MJ told him to trust god.
He did though, didn't he?
Then why did he book an appointment? He was fine. He had to trust God to help him, depending on other people meant he didn't have faith that God would help him.
He froze. Am I a bad person?
Right then, his phone pinged and he wiped his hands with a kitchen towel before opening his phone to check the notification.
It was MJ. She was calling him.
"Are you okay?" Peter had asked as soon as he accepted the call.
"You know, there was a story where a man left his camel without tying it up. The prophet asked him why and he said because he trusted that God would take care of it. The prophet told him that yes, trust God, but after you do your part. I think it's kind of the same with you. You can trust that God could help you, but you should also try to get that help yourself. You're not a bad person, Peter."
You're not a bad person.
Peter had been waiting to hear that from someone for a long time. his eyes watered and he inhaled roughly.
"Thank you," he breathed out trying, to show how grateful he was, because someone had finally told him what he couldn't tell himself.
He could hear MJ typing on the other side of the phone.
"Just stating the facts loser. You can always call me, okay?"
"Yea um- okay."
MJ hung up.
I'm not a bad person. I do trust god. Im okay.
Peter was okay. Or, working on it.
He cradled his faltering courage, and walked slowly into May's bedroom, which was open wide; his aunt was getting ready for bed.
"May?"
She looked at her nephew, nose scrunched in confusion.
"Pete, what's wrong?"
Peter couldn't move. He stood there frozen like a deer in headlights, and spoke with more urgency.
" May. "
His aunt looked worried.
"Come over here," she requested, patting the empty space next to her on the mattress.
He stumbled and covered his face as he all together collapsed onto the bed.
"I need help. " Peter whispered, his eyes starting to water.
He could feel an arm pulling him closer, his heartbeat running as if his veins were filled with week old red bull instead of red pulsing blood.
"I can't do this." He whined, exhaustion seeping into his bones.
May mussed with Peter's hair and kissed him on the cheek.
"I know, I know . We can go see someone, okay?"
Peter cried again, but from relief this time.
His aunt wanted to help him. He was going to be okay.
He hugged May again and laughed lightly.
"I larb you."
She smiled, eyes tearing up.
"I larb you too. God will help us. Trust me."
"I do. I do. "
A week later, Peter had walked out of his first therapy appointment, May walking in sync next to him. He looked up at the sky and grinned. Thank you.
Peter wasn't okay, far from it even, but with all this support, he finally felt hope.
Things were about to get better.