Dreama’s Diary–January 10
My world is spiraling downward. I can no longer bear this fruitless flirtation. I thought it might be something more, something real. It is not.
There was something that harkened to me. It was a dark memory from my past that taunted me. My self-destruction urged me towards it. I think about finding something sharp. Take it, it said. Vent your rage. Push yourself over the edge. See if anyone catches you. See if they don’t.
Don’t desire me, Stefan. Walk away, forget me. I could have loved you. Why didn’t you let me? Now, I’ll never get away from the desperation clinging to my heart. All it wants to know is why am I not worth fighting for? The little girl in me–abandoned by her father–needs to know why I’m not good enough to be loved. See, I can be my own therapist. I need to make peace and move on.
But you dangle yourself in front of me, Stefan. I should hate you for toying with me. Now, I can’t rest until you either embrace me or abandon me. The pain this is causing me demands an end to it! Which shall it be? For your sake, walk away. I’m tied to old wounds that beseech me. I cannot heal them yet, so I drown out the pain the only way I know how. I show it.
Dust had settled on my childhood jewelry box, but inside the red velour interior was a cool instrument of my suffering. I pulled out the straight razor. I held it, flirting with my intentions. The blade brushed against my fragile skin. So much damage it could do. I thought, I won’t hurt myself too much. It was in my hand. It was my need for control. I had none. I didn’t really want to do it. I wanted someone to stop me, but no one was here.
Tears cascaded down my face. I felt cold and alone. I haven’t done this since my teenage years. I was suddenly in a terrifying adult world and didn’t know what to do. I was nineteen and sharing an apartment with Mary Skinner. We both worked as apprentice hair stylists at the Modern Images Salon. We used straight razors sometimes for creating drastic styles or for thinning hair. I struggled to master the art. I had the cuts on my fingers to prove it.
I wasn’t a natural at cutting hair. I didn’t grasp the concept or the techniques. I was failing, but I couldn’t give up. I continued to struggle to learn, to pay the bills, to buy food, and to find out what the world was all about. Rent was fair for an eighty-year-old apartment building with no air conditioning and only a rusty space heater, yet our earnings barely covered the basics. Soon we went without. We walked two miles to work, hungry and cold in the winter. The only men I dated were angry drunks. They wanted my body, not the rest of me, so they got neither. This wasn’t the life I wanted.
Mostly, I just sat in our unfurnished dining area where the sun shone the brightest. I loved the way it warmed my skin, neglected by human touch. My soul reached out to the light, begging to be free of my despair. I didn’t know how to do that. I drank the leftover beer in the refrigerator as I stared at my straight razor, a tool I used in my trade for survival. But I wasn’t surviving.
Soon that tool became my friend. When the alcohol didn’t work, I played with my razor. At first, it was just little cuts to see if I could do it. I wanted to assault this life that hurt me.
Later, fueled by anger, I got braver and made a small gash and then another. I always bandaged myself, went to sleep and hoped for a better day. As the cuts healed, I felt that something deeper was healing.
That day did come. I met Henry. He came into the downtown shop one day after work. He was tall with mysterious eyes that poured with affection. I didn’t think he had a mean bone in his body. If he did, he kept it away from me. I’d cut his thick, dark hair, running it through my long fingers whenever possible. I loved its smooth feel, and he’d sit there silently watching me play with his hair. Then I’d carefully brush the loose hairs from his face and blow them off his neck.
My gentle touch reached deeper than his skin. It stirred his heart. So one day he reached up as I stroked his hair–so desperate to be loved–and he took my tired hand into his and pulled it against his rough cheek. The human contact melted me. Helplessly, I stared into his dark eyes and found them possessed by the ache of love. I never wanted it to end. I leaned my head against his and closed my eyes. His warmth defeated my fears. From that day on, he was my Henry. Neither of us will let go.
He thought I was beautiful. I thought he was. He was an angel sent to nudge my shattered spirit back into life. Nurturing and kind, he breathed hope into me. At that time, it was the end of my self-destruction. I gave up doing hair. I never liked it anyway. I made a fresh start. My razor went into the jewelry box.
Now, it beckons again. My angel has grown uncertain. He needs me to reach out to him, to take him into my arms. It is my turn to bring life back to him. That is what I should do, but I can’t. The fear of rejection holds me back. What if he decides that he doesn’t want us to work out? A constant doubt plagues me. I can feel it when he looks at me. He’s not sure. I don’t blame him.
And now I have drawn a stranger into my untidy web. Poor man! He doesn’t know not to cast a line into my darkness.