Pins and Needles
Nov 4, 2010 20:16:00 GMT -5
Post by Dr. Sean Neville on Nov 4, 2010 20:16:00 GMT -5
This deals with a heavy subject and it is also depressing. I want to give everyone a warning before they read.
That said, this isn't site canon.
The telepath kept a safety pin in the front right pocket of his pants, “just in case.” His mother had taught him the habit, although his purposes were markedly different from hers. His mother mended clothing and was ever worried about breaking zippers or popping buttons. Sean occasionally needed pain.
He wasn’t a masochist; he was an addict.
Sean had a complicated relationship with pain, one that had begun back when he was twelve.
So much had gone wrong when his powers emerged. He thought he was losing his sanity; he felt that he might disappear, and there was nobody to talk to, nobody to explain. He hurt all of the time, but in ways he couldn’t articulate. His powers opened up a hole in him, one he couldn’t begin to know how to fix at that age. He felt drained; more than that, he felt empty.
Pain reminded him that he had a body; that he wasn’t merely adrift mentally, drowning in thoughts and memories and feelings he couldn’t begin to grasp. Pain was a distraction, giving him an external focus rather than the never-ending introspection. Pricks to his fingers, scratches along his palms, his arms, piercing the skin. He welcomed the sharp sensations and the duller ones that followed.
They had begun a medley of Shakespeare in English that year, and one quote resonated with him. If you prick us, do we not bleed? He bled when pricked. And he took comfort in that.
When he arrived at Hammel, the habit persisted. He went through cycles when he needed his pins, and others when he didn’t. He never spoke to Robert about it, and if the old man knew, he didn’t think it worth discussing. After two years of the habit, Sean was too embarrassed to ask if it was a common coping mechanism, so he kept it to himself. Carefully guarded, he only used the pins when his roommate was out or at home, where he had his own room.
Pain let him cope with the days when he felt like the entire world was trying to fit into his head and when he felt like there was no room left for his own thoughts. Pain gave him clarity, letting him focus through the darkness which threatened to suffocate him. Pain put the world in perspective.
There had only been one period in his life during which the pain was unnecessary: when he and Josh were dating. The safety pins lay forgotten in a drawer for those few years. Nothing bothered him on a personal level; the darkness burned away from the radiance of his love and happiness. Whole for the first time, there was no room for emptiness.
Ending that relationship came as a surprise to him. So much so that he’d been rendered mute while Josh listed the reasons why they could no longer be together. So much so that he lost several days in the aftermath, slipped away never to be returned. One minute he was on their sofa – the one they’d converted from the pew he’d bought when the church a few blocks away had shut its doors forever – and the next minute he’d had his head in Robert’s lap, gentle fingers sifting through his hair while Beth came in with a bowl of chicken soup. Unable to confide in his parents, just as he’d been unable when he was twelve, he sought out his surrogate family for comfort.
Being torn apart was worse than anything he’d known before. The darkness filled those freshly opened holes like maggots in a gangrenous limb. Having been free for those years, he couldn’t cope with the return to the edge because he’d forgotten what it was like.
He nabbed a pin from Beth’s sewing kit but it didn’t do the job. He felt nothing. The pin was like using a bucket to hold back a tidal wave.
So he pulled the blade out of his razor and began using that instead.
The first time the razor slipped was one of the most humiliating moments in his life. He nicked a vein, and when the blood wouldn’t stop, he had to bite the bullet and go to the emergency room. Seven stitches later, he returned home and tossed the razor in the trash.
Three days later, he picked up a fresh one. But he’d learned his lesson and switched to his legs.
It took him two years to work his way back down from using razors. Slowly but surely, he retrained himself to settle for pins. He had already sacrificed his soul to the darkness; he couldn’t ruin his body as well, and he’d already done enough damage. With patience, he brought himself back to the status quo: pins and pain, the closest he could get to being whole after he’d been ripped in twain.
And when he and Josh tumbled into bed on his birthday – the first of many bad choices they made together, the beginning of that self-destructive cycle – Josh didn’t comment on the scars that covered his thighs.
He paid a dear price for every encounter with Josh. Every drunken tumble, every celebration, every night of comfort. Those few joyous moments always ended the same way: with him alone and the darkness ever encroaching. So he used his pins. And when he wanted to remember why the cycle was self-destructive, he slammed his hands in a drawer.
It wasn’t enough to deter him. He would suffer a thousand lows for those few moments when he could pretend to be whole again. When there was no room in his mind and soul for anything but the here and now. The moments were fleeting.
Sean never told a soul about his addiction. But when the occasional student came to his office who admitted to being a cutter, he told them he understood. And he was sincere.
And when Becky Henderson came to his office, in tears because she was overwhelmed by the intensity of being a teenager, he recognized himself in her young features. He glanced briefly at his left hand, two of his fingers in splints. He stroked his pocket with his right thumb. And he told her she just had to find a way to cope. He hoped she didn’t ask for suggestions, because he was in no position to make them.
That said, this isn't site canon.
Pins and Needles
The telepath kept a safety pin in the front right pocket of his pants, “just in case.” His mother had taught him the habit, although his purposes were markedly different from hers. His mother mended clothing and was ever worried about breaking zippers or popping buttons. Sean occasionally needed pain.
He wasn’t a masochist; he was an addict.
Sean had a complicated relationship with pain, one that had begun back when he was twelve.
So much had gone wrong when his powers emerged. He thought he was losing his sanity; he felt that he might disappear, and there was nobody to talk to, nobody to explain. He hurt all of the time, but in ways he couldn’t articulate. His powers opened up a hole in him, one he couldn’t begin to know how to fix at that age. He felt drained; more than that, he felt empty.
Pain reminded him that he had a body; that he wasn’t merely adrift mentally, drowning in thoughts and memories and feelings he couldn’t begin to grasp. Pain was a distraction, giving him an external focus rather than the never-ending introspection. Pricks to his fingers, scratches along his palms, his arms, piercing the skin. He welcomed the sharp sensations and the duller ones that followed.
They had begun a medley of Shakespeare in English that year, and one quote resonated with him. If you prick us, do we not bleed? He bled when pricked. And he took comfort in that.
When he arrived at Hammel, the habit persisted. He went through cycles when he needed his pins, and others when he didn’t. He never spoke to Robert about it, and if the old man knew, he didn’t think it worth discussing. After two years of the habit, Sean was too embarrassed to ask if it was a common coping mechanism, so he kept it to himself. Carefully guarded, he only used the pins when his roommate was out or at home, where he had his own room.
Pain let him cope with the days when he felt like the entire world was trying to fit into his head and when he felt like there was no room left for his own thoughts. Pain gave him clarity, letting him focus through the darkness which threatened to suffocate him. Pain put the world in perspective.
There had only been one period in his life during which the pain was unnecessary: when he and Josh were dating. The safety pins lay forgotten in a drawer for those few years. Nothing bothered him on a personal level; the darkness burned away from the radiance of his love and happiness. Whole for the first time, there was no room for emptiness.
Ending that relationship came as a surprise to him. So much so that he’d been rendered mute while Josh listed the reasons why they could no longer be together. So much so that he lost several days in the aftermath, slipped away never to be returned. One minute he was on their sofa – the one they’d converted from the pew he’d bought when the church a few blocks away had shut its doors forever – and the next minute he’d had his head in Robert’s lap, gentle fingers sifting through his hair while Beth came in with a bowl of chicken soup. Unable to confide in his parents, just as he’d been unable when he was twelve, he sought out his surrogate family for comfort.
Being torn apart was worse than anything he’d known before. The darkness filled those freshly opened holes like maggots in a gangrenous limb. Having been free for those years, he couldn’t cope with the return to the edge because he’d forgotten what it was like.
He nabbed a pin from Beth’s sewing kit but it didn’t do the job. He felt nothing. The pin was like using a bucket to hold back a tidal wave.
So he pulled the blade out of his razor and began using that instead.
The first time the razor slipped was one of the most humiliating moments in his life. He nicked a vein, and when the blood wouldn’t stop, he had to bite the bullet and go to the emergency room. Seven stitches later, he returned home and tossed the razor in the trash.
Three days later, he picked up a fresh one. But he’d learned his lesson and switched to his legs.
It took him two years to work his way back down from using razors. Slowly but surely, he retrained himself to settle for pins. He had already sacrificed his soul to the darkness; he couldn’t ruin his body as well, and he’d already done enough damage. With patience, he brought himself back to the status quo: pins and pain, the closest he could get to being whole after he’d been ripped in twain.
And when he and Josh tumbled into bed on his birthday – the first of many bad choices they made together, the beginning of that self-destructive cycle – Josh didn’t comment on the scars that covered his thighs.
He paid a dear price for every encounter with Josh. Every drunken tumble, every celebration, every night of comfort. Those few joyous moments always ended the same way: with him alone and the darkness ever encroaching. So he used his pins. And when he wanted to remember why the cycle was self-destructive, he slammed his hands in a drawer.
It wasn’t enough to deter him. He would suffer a thousand lows for those few moments when he could pretend to be whole again. When there was no room in his mind and soul for anything but the here and now. The moments were fleeting.
Sean never told a soul about his addiction. But when the occasional student came to his office who admitted to being a cutter, he told them he understood. And he was sincere.
And when Becky Henderson came to his office, in tears because she was overwhelmed by the intensity of being a teenager, he recognized himself in her young features. He glanced briefly at his left hand, two of his fingers in splints. He stroked his pocket with his right thumb. And he told her she just had to find a way to cope. He hoped she didn’t ask for suggestions, because he was in no position to make them.
