Thirteen

It wasn’t until watching “Secretary” that I realized that self-mutilation wasn’t something I alone had done as a young teen. My eighth grade homeroom teacher, Mr. Hennessy, Georgetown law school dropout and ultimate Frisbee player, saw the scratches on my wrist and called my parents. It was the night of their 25th wedding anniversary, the last one they would spend together. My mom would die suddenly of a mystery illness eight months later.

My parents mistook the scratches, made with a steak knife I kept under my mattress, for a suicide attempt. That’s when they found Cuban psychologist Dr.A” (see above link). The license plate on his car read "BIG HUG."
One of our initial sessions went like this:

“Your parents say you are very good at soccer. Is that right?”
“I guess.”
“You like playing soccer?”
“Yeah.”
“You realize you have to be alive to play soccer, don’t you?”

Watching “Thirteen” Saturday night, I again was reminded that I was not alone in this seemingly bizarre behavior. When outside forces well beyond your control are causing you pain, it’s awfully comforting to be able to inflict your own. You choose when and where and how much damage should be done. You watch the blood come out. You watch the cut heal. It’s a dirty little ritual. This too shall pass.

My dad screamed at me. My mom cried. The next morning I pretended to stay asleep as my dad stroked my hair. He gave me homework assignments after that. Made me read Readers Digested Condensed books and write book reports. I wasn’t allowed to close the door to my bedroom. Ever.

When I graduated from junior high school, my mom bought Mr. Hennessy the most expensive Frisbee she could find. Upon attending my mom’s wake the following January, Mr. Hennessy approached my dad:

“Please go easy on Katherine. You were always so tough on her.”

My dad was furious with me, what had I told Mr. Hennessy, what could he possibly be talking about. Practicing for a piano lesson, I was reminded of my mom’s 50-year-old hands, the oval finger nails, Estee Lauder lotion in the big pale green bottle, Chopin’s Waltz in a Minor, sponge painting on a rainy afternoon, rolling potica dough, the time she accidentally dyed her hair (and nails) pink in an attempt to cover her gray.

I couldn’t look at my dad. I looked down at my own hands, speechless.