White Red Black

          Everyone had always commented about her skin.  It had always been creamy in its darkness.  She rarely ever had a blemish, and scars never stayed for long. 

          She took off her jeans, tossing them in the hamper, and sat down on the towel she had neatly placed on the floor.  Cleanliness was always a habit for her.  She couldn’t allow things to become messy.

          Running her hand down her inner thigh, she inspected the skin.  It wasn’t quite as smooth as the rest of her body, the color was a little off as well, but that was the only evidence.  It helped that she never did it in the same spot.  Yet years of release meant that she was running out of space. 

          Turning and reaching under the bed, she pulled out a pink jewelry box covered in sparkles.  Her father had given it to her when she was little, when she was still whole; before the blood in her veins had started to choke her.  It was something she couldn’t explain to anyone, not even her grief counselor. 

Her father had passed away from cancer when she was in fifth grade.  His death had of course devastated the entire family.  They all did the healthy thing and went to grief counselors and “felt much better” for it.  Everyone was healing and they were all healthy.  Healthy healthy healthy!

          Then in early high school, she started feeling odd; somehow compressed; like she would explode. She had no idea what to do.

          One day she just found herself staring in the mirror.  It seemed that her head was full of flames and her body felt swollen, ready to split.  Yet she looked just fine from the outside. 

          She stared for a long time, just looking at herself, disgusted.  What started as studying her entire body then narrowed to separate parts; her arm, her hand, and eventually just her thigh.  The thought, “what beautiful skin!” passed through her mind.  An echo of praise she’d heard her whole life.  It disgusted her.  That was it.

          She left the bathroom.  Her little brother than up and gave her a hug as she made her way to the kitchen.  The house smelled of the pancakes and bacon her mother was cooking for their Saturday morning feast.  She stopped to ruffle her dog’s fur, and was given an attack kiss on the cheek from her mother.  They were all so happy and healthy!  Happy happy happy!

          She wasn’t afraid when he mother asked her what she needed the knife for.  It was a steak knife with a white handle and serrated edge.  Of course it was just for a “school project” she was working on.  Her mother wouldn’t be surprised that she needed a tool like that.  She was known for her brilliant science projects, dioramas, and everything else scholastic.  Whatever she needed to flex her scholastic muscle was given to her.

          As she walked back to the bathroom and grabbed a dark blue towel, her mother called after her that breakfast was almost ready.  “The brain needs to be fed,” was one of her mother’s favorite saying.  This was especially after her father had died and she had struggled to keep any food down.  Food still made her sick, but she chewed and swallowed with the best of them, keeping a smile on her face the whole time.

          Laying out the towel as she would at the beach, she sat down and looked at her arm.  Her very exposed arm.  All of the sports she played had short sleeved uniforms.  That won’t work.  Then she looked at her inner thigh.  It was as pristine as the rest of her skin.  It even had a bit more flesh.  Less dangerous.

          So for the first time, she sank the tip of the white handled knife into her skin…just the tip…and held it there.  Instantly her brain slowed down and acted like normal.  Her body no longer felt like it was about to burst from the inside out.  She sighed with relief.  The little trickle of blood that dripped out seemed inconsequential.  It was absolutely worth the relief.  She didn’t go any farther that time, but each release seemed to require the cut to be a little bit longer. 

People commented about how easy going and calm she was after that.  Great skin, great grades, great family, great athlete, great great great!  Healthy healthy healthy!  And this time she felt that it was true.

          And now it was today.  It was this time.  It was now.  She opened the jewelry box that smelled like aging felt.  The ballerina that used to twirl ever so slowly each time the cover was lifted still sprang up, but had run out of music to dance to and working gears to guide her. 

She still felt a little nervous, but then very calm and peaceful each time she held the knife.  The blade still pristine and white from all the scrubbings it had been given.

          She found a spot that was still clean and smooth.  The color was still perfect and creamy, deep and dark.  She slowly placed the tip in and stopped for a moment, taking three deep breaths so that she could concentrate on the relief rather than the pain.  She then dragged it a little further, feeling the weight on the tip as it opened her skin.  It felt so wonderful.  So good and clean.  The pressure was escaping.  Her head was calm. 

          Then a dark but tempting thought revealed itself from the depths of her mind.  She could just keep pushing.  If this felt good, then it wouldn’t hurt for the knife to go in farther. 

With giddy delight she closed her eyes and pushed down harder on the knife, breathing out with a long sigh.  She was oblivious to her surroundings, including  her dog who had nosed his way into her room to check on her.  She wasn’t expecting it when he placed his snout on her foot in a friendly and comfortable way.

          She jerked, and felt real pain for the first time in years.  Letting go of the knife, she looked down and saw the white handle sticking out of her brown flesh, the blade in up to the hilt.  There was thick line of blood spilling out of what was now the sagging flesh from her thigh.  The small cut was turning into a gaping hole.  She’d gone too far, but before the thought had sunk in, she became mesmerized by what she had made; the beauty of the dissected muscle, the pure red of the blood.  She watched it flow while her head was overcome with a fuzzy sense of being. 

          She didn’t notice that she was slumping over until she’d slid onto the floor.  Her vision was focused on the blood that was flowing past the edges of her towel.  Briefly, she thought that she would need to clean that up first.  But then even that didn’t matter; when everything went from red to black.

My Kryptonite

**There are some people out there who will read this and roll their eyes, knowing everything that I’m going to include in this post.  Those who are new friends of mine, this will be valuable information for you to know.  

-Just a reminder, I often write using hyperbole and this post is no different. If you don’t know what hyperbole is, just think of it as how most people today use the word “literally.”**

I hate you, heat!  HATE YOU!

I hate the heat.  HATE it.  My close friends as well as family can attest to this fact.  One of the strongest memories that my best friend has of the time we lived together was finding me lying on my bed in the summer time underneath the ceiling fan, groaning.  The heat had gotten me and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

I was lucky to live most of my childhood life in a brand new house that my parents had built.  They were AMAZING enough to install a temperature system that kept the house a particular temperature no matter what time of year it was.  I had always been a homebody, but when we moved into that house, there were very few times that I went outside during the spring and summer.  

I remember very clearly opening the front door to go outside to talk to my Dad while he mowed the lawn, hang out with my Mom while she gardened, or to go and get the mail.  As the door opened, I would be hit in the face with the intense Eugene summer heat that can only be really appreciated for what it is by a pale, white girl from Irish descent.  Sweat would automatically pop out on my skin and cover my entire body.

On top of the discomfort of the heat, I also have to touch a little more on my skin tone.  I am pale.  A friend of mine from Brazil described my skin as “milk.”  Another friend described it as florescent.  People have commented on certain pictures of me from childhood and even now, asking why I’d decided to wear white tights or white socks with certain outfits.  I always have to explain, those are just my bare legs.  

My sister’s goal in life during the summer from the time we were small children up to this day is to keep me covered in sunscreen at all times.  I remember her dragging me out of our pool, lakes, and other fun swimming spots to slather more goop all over my skin.  I eventually learned to deal with this interruption of my good time because it was inevitable and went faster when I gave in.

But I digress.  You see, having the kind of skin that I have means that I do not tan.  I have had one tan in my life that had resulted from one of the most painful sun burns that I had ever gotten.  That is, if you can call skin being lobster red and then fading to pink and staying that color for about six months a sun tan.  The sun and I do not get along.

The few times that I did leave the house during the summer was to go to softball practices and games.  I was a catcher for most of my career, which was an incredibly fun position, but not the best thing to do when you don’t take heat very well.  The worst time was in sixth grade when our uniform was modeled after professional baseball players uniforms.  We wore thick shirts and pants that did not breathe.  Putting catcher gear on top of this uniform was hell, but I also felt like a badass.  The pictures my parents have of my games that season show me as a be-freckled pre-teen who looks about ready to pass out from heat exhaustion. 

I can appreciate the beauty of a sunny day, but please do not ask me to go out in it.  I prefer to stay inside next to an air conditioner and look out at the scenery from there.  

No Sympathy

None

My most memorable birthday present was the air conditioner my parents and my sister got for me three years ago.  It is my most prized possession.  I would rather give up my entire wardrobe and even my nanimals than have to part with my air conditioner, and I am ready to have it installed TODAY.

I am not quiet about my distaste for the heat and the spring/summer season.  Another bad habit of mine is that I love zip ups, layers, sweatshirts and pants.  How do these two subjects go together, you may ask?  Well, I tend to wear my thinner pants, zip ups, and sweatshirts in layers during the spring and summer.  I have received quite a bit of criticism for this.  People have often scoffed when I complain about the heat and mention the “fact” that I could wear a t-shirt, tank top, shorts, or skirt instead and I’d be cooler.  Yet there is a problem that they don’t understand.  If I wore those things, I would be feeling uncomfortable with what I’m wearing on top of being too hot and showing even more skin to sizzle under the sun.  No thank you.  I’d rather just stay in an air conditioned area, inside, away from the sun, thank you very much.  And don’t get me started on how skirts are a very big problem for someone whose legs touch when they walk, especially when sweat is added to the equation. 

It isn’t just the discomfort either.  I get sick very easily when I’m too hot.  Headaches, stomach aches, dizziness, and other issues come up from the heat.  It isn’t the most fun thing ever.

One of the things that pisses me off the most about the spring and summer is that people pretend that because I live in Oregon, I have no right to say that it’s hot.  Apparently “Oregon heat isn’t heat at all.”  I beg to differ.  If it isn’t enough for someone, they can move somewhere else.  One of the things that I like about Oregon, at least in the areas I have lived, is that it is cooler than a lot of other places in the United States.  This doesn’t mean that weather between 75-105 degrees isn’t hot (and yes, 75 is hot for me).  I can’t just tell my body, “well, at least it’s ins’t super humid or over 100 degrees,” and expect my body to slap itself upside the forehead and say, “Well duh!  I can’t believe I thought I was hot!  Never mind then!”  It doesn’t work that way.

It is the biggest pain to get out of the shower after washing off the sweat from the warm day, dry off, put clothing on, and then realize you’re covered in sweat again.  I cannot count how many times I’ve gotten out of the shower, fresh and clean, to then moments later have to wipe my face off before I even try to put on my makeup.  Then I have to continually take breaks while getting ready to stand in front of the air conditioner or under the fan to keep myself from pitting out my fresh clothes.  

Heat Hair.  Emo bangs don't work when you're too hot!!

I really do hate the heat, and that has made me hate both spring and summer.  I dread the thought of the coming of these seasons all through the fall and winter.  It seems as though they come too fast and I never quite get enough time with my nice, cool weather.  I can promise that I will never start complaining about it.  You should all feel special that I've taken the time to brave the heat and sit in my plastic desk chair, where my legs are currently stuck.

HOT HOT HOT!!!

The only way to get through it all.