Lucky 7s
Tigers do not always burn bright. Written for Bell Let's Talk Day.
Author's Note: This story was written in response to Bell Let's Talk Day which is an initiative to promote awareness and end the stigma of mental illness. Please visit the following link to find out more: http://letstalk.bell.ca/en/
I wanted to write something about my experiences with mental illness but do something slightly different than just an outline of my life and my lifelong battle. While some key components have been taken from my own life and experiences, there are some changes.
Content Warning: Self Injury, Suicide Attempt, Mental Illness, Trichotillomania.
Lucky 7s
By Hobie Otter
1-27-2015
#BellLetsTalk
******* When I was seven, I wanted to be a paleontologist.
Or an astronaut.
I loved dinosaurs and space both equally. If there was a chance that you could find a T-Rex on the moon, my ass would be on the next shuttle.
I also had bald spots all over my fur.
Now when you're a tiger, it doesn't affect your stripes (tigers are very proud of their stripes, you see) but there was always something off about the giant, mismatched, squares of skin peeking out through my thick orange and black fur.
Mother and Father were even recommended some good home remedies for mange by strangers who passed us on the street. Cub Protective Services came by to make sure that I wasn't being abused. Doctors checked to see if I had some strange illness that caused my fur to fall out.
Of course, I only had myself to blame and that guilt was one of the most power feelings that I had as a cub.
The truth of the matter was that I was pulling it out myself.
It began as one hair. Then another. Then pawfuls. Over and over. Throughout my day. I had favorite spots, my sweet spots. It made me relax. It calmed me down. I could concentrate on my schoolwork. I knew that it comforted me when I was too young to put into words, "Hello Mother, Hello Father. I do believe that I am having a panic attack. Will you help me get through this?".
I would focus on the feel of each follicle. I would feel the soft patches of skin and could map their locations with my eyes closed. I became addicted and it was an itch that I just could not scratch. It kept going and going and-
"Stop!"
How I wish that I could. Bless Mother and Father, for they did truly try. They took away TV. They enrolled me into sports. They promised that if I didn't pull my fur out that I could get the new latest action figure or have extra dessert after dinner. They yelled. They threatened. They covered my paws with mittens and bandages so that I could not grip my fur.
But I didn't stop. Not for them or for the other students in my grade who teased me and my bald spots unmercifully.
I was diagnosed with Trichotillomania not too long after my seventh birthday. My parents finally had the answer they were looking for and I was more focused on learning cursive to care about what the name of my condition was.
"He'll grow out of it," the doctors said. "Just a warning, some fur might not grow back."
"This isn't uncommon," the therapists said.
And they were right, in the end (except for the part where my fur wouldn't grow back).
By the time I was eleven, diagnosed formally with anxiety and depression, the pulling had, indeed, stopped. I met with my "talk doctor" weekly and, soon enough, the soft, downy fluff of my new fur was starting to come through. There was no permanent damage.
I was good again.
I was the golden boy again.
Their perfect tiger.
*******
When I was seventeen, I had plenty of scars hidden under my fur.
My claws came in sharp at the start of puberty and Father taught me how to keep them neat once I had turned twelve. I was becoming a fine young gentleman, indeed, and it was time that I acted as such. It was a right of passage for our species and was part of my morning routine. Wake up, wash nose tip to tail tip, brush my fangs and trim my claws.
I was so proud the first time that I was able to do so without clipping the quick. It was nice to start my morning without sticking toilet tissues to a blunt, bleeding claw.
I remember the first time that it happened. It was an accident where I had unsheathed my claws at the wrong time. I didn't have control over them quite yet and it went right into my thigh during a scary scene in a movie. I remember the sharp sting.
And then the idea came to my head.
What if I clawed at myself?
The first time was in my bedroom, feeling shaky and scared over the start of my freshman year of high school.
The rush that went along with it reminded me of when I would pull my fur. When I was scared or sad or feeling as if the world was crushing me down into the dirt below, that sting would bring me back to the present.
I didn't trim my claws after that. My parents just thought that it was an act of rebellion. My cousin had done the same. They spoke of their disapproval but nothing more.
It was my comfort. It was how I was able to get through my day.
It wasn't about whether or not I would be able to write my name in cursive. It was no longer about whether or not I would be able to pass the weekly spelling test or if I got picked first for kickball.
It was now about whether I would get into college. Of what would happen if I didn't pass the myriad of honors and advanced placement courses that I had been enrolled in, including the classes I took on the weekends at the local community college.
It was about whether or not I would be asked to the school dance, whether or not I would be able to get my driver's license.
It was about the sinking feeling in my stomach every time I changed in the locker room at Gym Class. It was about seeing the other males there and that strange stirring in my sheath that made me change in the bathroom stalls for my own self-preservation.
I wasn't.
I couldn't be.
That was the last thing that I needed on top of everything else that I was doing.
Mother and Father started to notice some things before I was seventeen, of course. You can only keep bloodstained fur from your parents for so long before they start to get suspicious and realized I wasn't getting in as many scuffles as I said that I was. I was getting lazy with cleaning my wounds and, more than once, Mother mentioned that my pillowcases and sheets had blood on them. I blamed the dry air. I said that it was nosebleeds. I made up every excuse that I could think of.
I couldn't imagine what my parents were actually thinking but, at one point, my Father silently handed me a bottle of personal lubricant.
"Keep it in your nightstand. Keep your claws sheathed when you do it. I know it feels great but I don't know how many more bloody sheets your mother can take."
Ironically, it was Father who discovered the truth, not long after I had turned seventeen.
I think he smelled it. Or he saw my fur growing in wrong. I'm not sure what it was.
He grabbed my left arm one night at the dinner table and parted the fur, tightening his grip as I tried to pull away with a wince and a protest. The fresh slice was still tender. He looked at me, the clanging echo of the fork on porcelain as my mother dropped her fork as it all came together rang in my ears.
The baked cornish hens and rice pilaf were forgotten.
"Stop."
It was a low growl, fangs bared, ears pulled back. I never knew my father to be a threatening man but for once, in my life, I feared him.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
They got me to another doctor who put me on a set of pills. I had daily body checks for any new injuries and my parents celebrated as I went from clawing myself every day to maybe once a week, to a couple of times a month and then once in a blue moon. The pills helped to calm me down enough to graduate high school and go off to college. I made friends, I partied, I did well in my classes.
But I still clawed myself occasionally.
It was my solitude for another seven years.
I was their sick son.
I was broken.
I was their tainted tiger.
*******
In a couple of weeks, I will be twenty-seven.
I am awake now, the blue glow of the digital clock on my nightstand alerting me to the fact that it is 4:26 am. My eyes are wide, my heart is racing, my chest heaves, my body covered in a cold sweat, and it feels like I might have punctured a hole in our sheets again.
Another nightmare.
Again.
This is exactly why I keep a small sewing kit in my nightstand. It's a shame that they haven't come up with a strong enough material for sheets for predators and claw-caps are just too uncomfortable.
I sit up, peel the material from my claws, and run my paw over my face, trying to remind myself that I am here.
That I am safe.
I look over at the form next to me, his body rising and falling slowly with each breath. I roll over onto my side and wrap my paws around his waist, nuzzle into the back of his neck, his stubby bear tail twitching against my sheath.
He murmurs and grumbles in his slumber, something about salmon.
Typical of a bear, really.
I chuckle and kiss his cheek, the back of his neck, his shoulder, whatever is in reach. I want to taste him, to breathe in his scent, to feel him and to know that he is here and that he is real and that he is mine and that I am his.
I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know how I wound up with such an incredible guy.
I don't know how he puts up with my mood swings, my panic attacks, my moments of sheer depression when it's too hard for me to even think of getting out of our bed and all I want to do is cry.
I don't know how he still can still look at me after that morning he found me on the bathroom floor, the open, empty bottle of narcotics, the plastic bag over my head, the note at my feet which thanked him and my family for everything and contained my wishes for my funeral.
I don't know how he could still see me as a creature to be loved and cherished after held me close to his chest as I slurred and sobbed about how I was so much of a failure that I couldn't even successfully end my life.
I don't know how he can still kiss me after he held my paw when we left the hospital together after my stay. I was quiet the entire car ride home. He made small conversation, clipped off my hospital bracelet as soon as we walked through the front door, and cooked me a steak for dinner. He drove me to all of my doctor's appointments and sat in on my therapy sessions. He held me when the medications we tried just weren't working correctly and cleaned my arm the one time I backslid and clawed.
I don't know how he could love someone who, at so many points of our relationship, wanted nothing more than to disappear.
I slowly get out of bed, careful not to wake him up, and pad over to the bathroom, flicking on the light.
I cup my paws under the cold stream of water from the sink and pour it onto my face, sputtering as I miscalculated and got some up my nose. I snuffle and snort and shake my head, water droplets covering the mirror.
The orange bottle on the counter catches my gaze.
I pick it up and slide down the wall, the cold tile chilling my bare buttocks, my tail twitching as I adjust.
I glance at the mashing of letters of the name of the generic drug below my own name. It feels like a sentencing. Sometimes I wonder if there's a guy bored in an office somewhere who just makes up hard to remember names for generic drugs. I chuckle to myself as I imagine him, probably a coyote, his eyes closed and his fingers mashing the keys on his keyboard.
That doesn't have enough vowels?
Perfect.
My bear joins me in the bathroom, his eyes half-lidded, stiffing a yawn. He glances at my reflection in the mirror then down at the orange bottle in my paw.
There's silence for a moment and I wonder if part of him still jolts whenever he sees me sitting down on the bathroom floor with a bottle of pills in my paw.
"Can't sleep?" he murmurs and slides down next to me, his broad paw resting on my thigh in a comforting fashion.
"Nervous," I admit.
"You shouldn't be," he takes the bottle in his own paw and glances down at the white pills inside, shaking the plastic to rattle them inside. "This is a good one. We've done enough research on it."
I don't respond.
"The doctor said this should help..." he offers.
"He said that about the last one and I don't think that seeing zebras dancing in blue trees is something that should've happened."
"Bad reaction" he shrugs and opens the bottle, taking a single pill in his fingers. "They're not all the same. This may be the one."
I look at the small, white circular pill, dwarfed in his grasp. This was supposed to be 'the one'. This tiny little disc. This was supposed to be the one that would help me to be me once again.
Whatever that meant. When you've lived with a mental illness for as long as I am, you start to wonder who you truly are. What if it was part of me, like my stripes? What if it was something that could never be taken away? What if the side effects are bad? What if they were worse than before? What if this doesn't work? What then?
I feel my heart start to race, my breath quickening as I feel a wave of anxiety starting to swell. Noticing the change in my scent, he grabs my paw with his free one, giving a supportive squeeze.
"Stop."
His voice is gentle, kind, and a hint of oh so very used to this.
"Just do it..." I murmur. "Just do it and get it over with. It's not going to go away."
I lock my eyes on his, amber on brown, and open my mouth. He places the pill on my tongue; our tradition with the first pill of whatever medication I am trying now.
There's something strangely intimate about it.
I swallow it dry, ignoring his disapproving huff before he stands up fills up a glass we keep by the sink with water. He reaches down and presses it into my paw.
I down it and know better not to argue.
"What if this doesn't work?" I finally ask as I glance up at him, wiping the water from my whiskers.
"What if it does?" He cocks a brow and takes the glass, filling it up once more before he presses it back into my paw, urging me to take another sip.
I do and hoist myself up, placing the empty glass upside-down on the counter, "But-"
He brushes his muzzle against mine in a soft kiss, shushing my protests before he takes my paw and leads me from the bathroom. His voice is low as we slide back into bed together, me on my side, his larger form spooning me from behind, his paw trailing around my waist to rest on my stomach.
"Then we'll keep fighting. However long this takes," he murmurs into the back of my neck. "We keep fighting. Together."
I am his survivor.
I am lucky.
I am his healing Tiger.
*******