I knew it would work because my dad’s big on the honor code.
Dr. Kreiter said we’d caught the self-harm early, but she didn’t say the same about my anxiety. I know my parents bristled at the implication that a doctor had recognized something almost the moment she met me that they might have missed for months or even years. I think it’s part of what made them agree to my three-month deal, like if it worked, then they’d prove to the doctor that they knew me better than she did, knew I liked goals and wouldn’t lie about whether or not I met them.
Anyway, I was confident the three-month deal would be effective. I’d had goals (though Dr. Kreiter called them rituals) when it came to cutting even before the doctor entered the picture: I wasn’t allowed to cut anywhere but in the bathroom at night with my trusty razor blade, and only after I’d finished the day’s homework, no matter how hard my hands might shake at school, no matter how hard they might shake sitting at the desk in my room as I struggled with the night’s physics assignment. After each cut, I washed the blade with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol and blotted up the mess with tissues and toilet paper.
I made the rules, and I stuck to them. (Except for the occasional emergency.) It was part of how I knew that my problem wasn’t really that serious, because I was able to contain it. (For the most part.) So I was certain I’d be able to stick to this new set of rules: No cutting for three months. I was confident I’d hit my goal and then even surpass it, because hitting goals and surpassing them was something I knew how to do. Or try to do.
After I was diagnosed, Dad told Dr. Kreiter that he’d raised me to care about the world, and the state of the world these days was enough to give anyone anxiety. He said he’d had sleepless nights too. He said he’d looked for unconventional ways to relieve the pressure too. (By which he meant new types of yoga and meditation.)
“It’s only natural,” he said. “It’s a difficult time for so many of us.”
I think Dr. Kreiter didn’t expect my progressive, understanding parents to agree to a deal like the three-month trial, but I could’ve told her that my dad sees things in black and white. Good versus bad. A’s versus F’s. Acceptance versus rejection. Cutting versus not cutting.
Dad said: “You don’t know my little girl like I do. She won’t let me down.”
It’s been a month and a half.
I’ve made it halfway to my goal without an incident.
I’ve been okay, for the most part.
I mean, okay for me.
Two
The Activist
My parents are very supportive. They pride themselves on being allies. Once, when a colleague of Dad’s came over for dinner and I mentioned my girlfriend, he said something about my sexuality being some kind of trend. It was so insulting. So dismissive. Like I’d grow out of who I am.
This led to one of my bigger speeches: about judging someone based on her age, based on how she looks, based on where she comes from. About foolish, cruel, and antiquated stereotypes.
Dad didn’t stop me, didn’t say anything about being rude to his important guest.
I literally stood up from my chair, my fork still in my hand.
The guy held up his hands, admitting defeat. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he protested.
I shook my head. Of course he meant something by it. Everyone means something by everything they say. When you claim that you didn’t “mean anything by it,” you’re really trying to free yourself from the responsibility of having said something rude. Like when people say “no offense” before saying something absurdly offensive.
“Don’t say sheesh like I’m overreacting. I’m just reacting.”
Across the table, I could see Dad trying not to smile. He was pleased with my outburst. He’s the one who taught me to argue. He’s always liked picking fights with me—he likes having a sparring partner. He takes credit for how strong my opinions are because he’s the one who instilled them to begin with. He wants me to be a human rights attorney one day, just like him. He started training me to argue when I was a little kid, using the sort of stuff that little kids believe but are totally wrong about because they can’t yet conceive of the real explanations. One of my earliest memories is the time he held a flashlight and told me that I wasn’t fast enough to beat the beam of light from one end of the room to the other.
“Ready,” he began. “Set.” He held up the light, his finger over the button that would turn it on. I screwed up my face, ready to run as fast as I could. How could that silly little flashlight be faster than I was? I was so sure I’d win.
“Go!”
Of course, I lost. And he used the opportunity to teach me about the speed of light.
Dad likes to turn everything into a Lesson with a capital L.
Three
The Cool Girl
Tess finds me in the hallway at school on Monday. (I’m late to homeroom. A few weeks ago my parents had a long conversation with my homeroom teacher—apparently I was one tardy away from detention—but now Mrs. Frosch doesn’t mark me as late anymore. She understands that I’m trying to get to school on time. A for effort and all that. It’s not like I want to be late. I always end up with the crappiest spot in the student parking lot. Well, second-crappiest. Hiram Bingham’s spot is even worse.)
At the time, Tess was amazed that I avoided detention. “You can get away with murder!” she’d shouted, impressed.
I shrugged like it was no big deal, like cool things happened to me all the time. I wasn’t about to tell her the real reason: my obsessive-compulsive disorder.
“That’s ridiculous,” I protested when Dr. Kreiter insisted that OCD was part of my diagnosis. “OCD would make me get to places early, not late.”
Dr. Kreiter explained that OCD can manifest in different ways, and while it’s come to mean one thing in the pop-culture lexicon—being organized and neat and prompt, none of which I was—it can also make a person habitually late and unable to manage her time or responsibilities.
Lucky for me, those symptoms make me look cool and carefree. Tess has never suspected a thing.
Now, Tess runs down the hall toward me as the bell rings for first period. (Apparently, I missed homeroom entirely.) I watch her hair bounce with each step. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Of course, I understand, but we said no secrets. Though maybe you didn’t think it was your secret to keep?”
“What are you talking about?”
Tess rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. There’s no use trying to keep it quiet anymore.”
Oh, god. Someone must’ve found out about my cutting and my multiple diagnoses. And of course, that someone told Tess. And now Tess is furious at me for keeping such a huge secret from her. By the end of the day, the whole school will know.