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Just like I said I would.

And I had no regrets.

ChapterTwenty-Four

JACQUELINE

“Can I call you Jackie?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Jack?”

“No.”

“Hmm, Jacqueline it is then,” he smiled before bracing my shoulders and pushing me onto my back.

* * *

When I was a child,I struggled with (what I would later learn is called) self-injurious behaviors. This wasn’t behavior designed to harm myself. It was behavior that I practiced in an attempt to regulate my body when I was feeling very, very dysregulated. But the behavior still wasn’t safe. It didn’t happen often, because I quickly learned how problematic it was. I already felt weird, and alien around my peers. I didn’t want them to see me do these things and find another reason I was different. I only had a handful of memories of these behaviors. Memories that stuck with me because of the big reactions I received when other adults saw me do it.

One time, we couldn’t have been much older than five or six, Marco was chasing me around our house. I remembered turning a corner, cackling loudly, feeling adrenaline course through my body when I had accidentally bumped into a housecleaner and spilled her bucket of dirty water all over the floor. It soaked me as well.

Marco, being a typical brother, pointed at me and laughed.

The house cleaner scolded me, instructing that I help her clean it up.

But I didn’t want to stop and help. I knew Ishould. I knew how to clean up messes. I know that helping her clean it up was the right thing to do. But I still had energy buzzing in my veins. I wanted torun. I wanted Marco to keep chasing me. I needed to release the pent-up energy itching in my arms and legs and stomach.

So I lifted my forearm to my mouth and bit down, and my insides started to feel better. All the focus and restlessness buzzing inside of me suddenly had an outlet as I dug my teeth into my skin hard enough to leave a bruise, but not hard enough to break it.

Marco wasn’t surprised, because he’d seen this from me before. The housecleaner, however, gasped and quickly pulled my arm from my mouth. Her reaction was so big, so frightening, soconcernedfor me, that it was then that I learned that biting myself wasn’t socially acceptable.

Marco ended up helping us clean up the mess.

I ended up biting my arm only when I was alone and no one would see me do it.

Later, our father was lecturing us before school. I guess Marco had been disruptive in class and was trying to use me as an example of how to behave. We were both slouching at the kitchen table, Marco resting his head on his crossed arms, me with my hands in my lap and my chin resting on the wood.

Our father always demanded eye contact whenever he spoke to us, so while I understood what was happening, all of my energy was focused on staring at our father. Not looking away. Not getting distracted. It was why I was deemed “good” in school because I had mastered how to make it look like I was paying attention when really every muscle in my body was trembling with the need to escape.

My dad raised his voice, snapping his fingers in front of Marco’s face to get his attention.

So I pressed my chin against the wood.

It felt good, it was grounding me. I felt more in control.

I dug even harder, slowly adding more pressure as my dad went on and on about proper classroom behavior.

Finally, the wood cracked underneath my face.

I had a bruise on my chin for a few days.

And the memory of my father’s scream that I could still hear to this day.

It had been a while since I had behaved that way, but today, I was reminded of it. Why I did those things as a young girl.

Mary knocked on the doorframe of Leo’s office before poking her head in and asking, “Can I interrupt?”