Warning: This post deals with self harm. Its content, and specific words used throughout the piece, may be triggering for some readers.
By ANONYMOUS
I found her slumped over the toilet bowl which in itself, was unusual. She wasn’t sick but she “couldn’t go to school” she said. It was her first day back after a long hiatus and I was running late for work and honestly, my first instinct was to tell her to stop being ridiculous. That’s when I saw it. Or I should say, saw them. They weren’t overly obvious, just fine little lines extending out from under her pajama shorts.
They weren’t deep, they were more like grazes but they were definite lines drawn with something sharp (later found to be a razor) on her upper thigh. “WHAT is that?!” I asked and pointed, my voice raised.
I panicked, I admit it. I just totally panicked and I am ashamed to admit that I handled it poorly. I think I just went into Mamma Bear, worst case scenario mode and instead of my first instinct being one to nurture, it was one of pure, surreal, terrifying fear.
She ran into her room to escape her now, rather scary mother and I followed. I sat across from her, calmed down and told her to tell me what was going on. She was crying, I was crying, her brothers were knocking on the locked door, wondering what was going on. In short, everyone was petrified. It was less than ideal.