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"I think I was seven."
when he says that, Jeff's therapist makes the face she makes when he's said something bad that he didn't know was bad. "I mean- it wasn't really self harm, not really. I guess it was... I did hurt myself, but not- not like that."
it was in first grade, he thinks, or maybe second. either way, it was that point at school where it's just learning how to read and count and be a functioning human being. he remembers this kid, Henry something. he wore shorts year round, and had a blue t-shirt with different breeds of dogs on it that Jeff was jealous of.
one week, Henry came in with a bandage wrapped around his wrist. he was showing it off proudly, getting kids to sign it even though the sharpie just soaked through the soft fabric. this annoyed Jeff when he was young, but he didn't yet know why. he was on the swings at break time, kicking his feet in the dirt angrily. that's about as angry as you can get at seven years old. he was thinking, trying to understand why he was angry at Henry. it wasn't really fair that people cared about him just because he got hurt. Jeff could get hurt just as easily. he could've tripped on his way to school, burnt his hand when he was making him mom's tea... fallen off the swings.
to Jeff's seven year old mind, this felt like a very smart and revolutionary idea that could have no possible long term affects. he started kicking harder, pushing the swing faster. he closed his eyes, holding his breath as he reached the peak of the swings arch, before jumping.
he broke his foot in three places.
Jeff loved to tell people he broke his foot in three places. he felt so superior to people, even years later, who sprained their wrists, or broke their legs in one place. imagine.
it's like they weren't even trying.
"I was twelve, the next time. it was the first... proper self harm, I suppose. but it didn't feel real."
"what do you mean, not real?"
he didn't even think about it when he was rummaging for the blue-and-grey scissors in the kitchen drawer, twirling them between his fingers as he hopped up the stairs, two at a time. he had googled pictures of appendicitis scars, and drawn in marker where he was going to cut.
he was nervous. he'd never done this before. when he lied about having appendicitis, he truthfully hadn't thought anyone would care enough to follow up.
the scissors are too big, and left handed, and Jeff feels clumsy. does he just... cut? should he cry? change his mind? is this meant to be emotional? all he feels is scared of the pain.
Jeff squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the pain, and quickly drags the knife deep through the flesh of his stomach.
holy crap.
his hand shakes, and he feels himself gripping tighter, the blade giving one last stab before it falls from his grasp. he grits his teeth from the pain, and the scissors clatter, open, onto the floor. he can't help doubling over, hitting his head on the desk in front of him. tears spill down his face, and this probably hurts more than an actual appendicitis does.
once he can straighten up, the pain of the open wound having dulled to that of a stinging punch in the stomach, he inspects it. red covers his hands, and Jeff thinks he can see something that looks like styrofoam deep in the gash, but he isn't sure. the cut stretches open as he sits up, gaping and red. it looks terrifying.
Jeff vaguely hears the door slam open, flinching at the sound. his mom is home, but he doesn't move from his place in his room. if today is anything like the first 12 years of his life, she's going to take a bottle of wine up to her room and sleep until morning.
a voice in Jeff's head says quietly, imagine if she saw what you did. that'd show her. he smiles at the thought. she'd be so worried, if she cared. he imagined that she'd get up, she'd put down the bottle. clean his cut like in a movie, tuck him in on the couch and make him hot chocolate. she would look after him. be a mom.
Jeff shakes his head at himself. dumb fucking thought. he wipes the scissors on his sock, and puts them in his desk drawer. he takes one last glance at the gash across his stomach. he is going to get so many 'get well soon' cards.
"when I first started... properly self harming, I was sixteen."
his therapist frowns, putting her head to one side. "properly...?"
Jeff explains, "you know, three in the morning, listening to dumb angsty music, Xacto knife on your thigh and planning your suicide. proper self harm."
"there are lot of different ways to self harm, you know Jeff," she says it kindly, but Jeff frowns. he hadn't prepared to talk about hitting himself when he failed a test, or pulling his hair out when his dad called. he wanted to keep things simple. black and white.
Jeff couldn't say exactly what it was that made him cross the border between sort-of self harm and undeniable, diagnosable cutting himself. he didn't really think about it, there was no snapping, it just seemed like a natural next step. he didn't want to be some pussy who claimed to be depressed but never even broke the skin.
so Jeff snapped the blade out of a craft knife in woodshop class, slipped it between the pages of his bio book, and smiled about it for the rest of the day. when he got home, it was empty, as usual, but it felt wrong to be in the living room. he locked the bathroom door, for no reason other than convention. blade held firmly between his fingers, he decided on a place. he vividly remembers the lack of thought happening in his head, and that honestly scared him. shouldn't his mind be racing, shouldn't there be some sort of voice telling him to cut deeper?
there wasn't. his mind was blank as he unzipped his jeans and rolled up his boxers, digging his nails into the meaty part of his thigh to prepare himself. he quickly scratched a long line into the side.
it hurt less than he expected, so he did three more before he had time to think about it.
when he was done, he just stared. watching the beads of blood form on his thigh.
was he supposed to feel something?
"it was worst when I was... about twenty two, maybe to twenty four, I suppose. old enough to drink, not to have any logical thought. that was when I started bargaining." Jeff put his head in his hands, trying to remember the blur of his mid twenties without thinking about it too hard.
"what do you mean by bargaining?"
Jeff spoke, stumbling over his words as they caught in his throat, "with myself. making up rules, and... punishing myself when I broke them."
it hadn't meant to get this far.
it was supposed to just be one time, one day when he ate too much and drank too much and needed to do something about it.
before that day, Jeff had been clean for six months. it was supposed to just be a one off.
he'd remembered everything he'd eaten that day. writing down the calories in an excel sheet, feeling sick when the number was double all the others. it didn't feel real until he was already carving into his skin, going deeper and deeper until his hand was shaking and bloody. he felt weak and he just lay on his side, his hand ghosting over his fat blood covered stomach.
he didn't eat the next day. he didn't cut himself either.
Jeff really hadn't meant for it to become so strict. he could tell himself it was correlation, not causation, tell himself he just happened to eat more and happened to cut himself on the days he felt worse, but that didn't change the fact that soon enough, he would have fresh scars every time he ate more than he should have.
it became a routine. he made a spreadsheet on his burner email, which felt like literally the saddest thing anyone could ever do, but he didn't need it anyway, he remembered.
one portion carbs - 18 cuts
one portion protein - 10 cuts
fruit - 8 cuts
salad (no dressing) - 6
dessert - 24
snack - 16
he made deals with himself. "if I don't eat lunch, I can have pasta for dinner." "if I don't finish this plate, I can have two shots tonight."
slowly, he'd make up excuses to do more.
at first, it was, if it doesn't leave a mark, it doesn't count.
then if it doesn't break the skin.
then if it doesn't bleed.
then if it doesn't keep bleeding.
his thighs were riddled with holes and cuts and flaws and scars but he was thin. he was fine.
"and how did you... get out of this cycle?" Jeff can practically hear the eggshells crackling as his therapist walks on them, and his fists clench. he's not crazy. he doesn't need to be treated like a crazy person.
he can't meet her eyes, elbows still resting on his knees as he stares at the floor. he mutters, "I didn't, really."
he feels her get worried, "but you're not still tracking your food and self harming to this degree?"
"um, well. basically. I just sort of got a life," he says quietly, scratching the back of his neck a little too hard.
Jeff had been nothing for years.
he dropped out of college, he spent his whole life building shitty bridges and shitty friendships and burning them within months. he had close to seven hundred contacts in his phone, but the last person he messaged was a month ago. he'd started a total of thirteen different Instagram accounts because each time he got that buzz of serotonin from the first few followers, the people like me, I'm the best person ever feeling, and then abandoned them the moment it died down.
he got a job. at a law firm.
he tried to care about things that a lot of people seemed to care about, he fought for arguments that mattered less to him than a speck of dust on his shoe. he made more connections and got more contacts. he drank more and ate more and drank more to forget that he ate more.
he got fat, and he got lazy, but too lazy to do anything. it was just a thought in the back of his head, an unrelenting whir of self hatred, muffled by his cool and exciting life.
Jeff never stopped cutting himself. but he didn't bleed all over the bathroom floor, it was just paperclips and sharp fingernails on his arms when he was about to lose a case. he's pretty sure he once won a hopeless case because of that, actually, the jury clearly thought that losing it could tip him over the edge.
nothing ever happened. he lost some cases, he won a lot of cases. that did too much for his ego than it really should have, and he wasn't sure how he felt. he knew he was better, but also he was so much worse. maybe if he could be in a different body, in a different life.
"and... then I got a better life."
Greendale was a change. Jeff didn't like it, his friends bothered him but made him feel good about himself in a non-wholesome way that wouldn't be featured in a Disney movie.
he had people to message most weeks. he had his people, even if they weren't his people. they were safe.
he still cut himself. he still counted his calories. friends were nice, probably too nice to him, but old habits die hard.
he still drank himself to sleep. one night, Abed said it was towards the end of season two, his vision was blurry, like usual, and he was thinking, not like usual.
sometimes he tried to cry when he thought about his childhood. he didn't that night. he thought about being six, being twelve, being sixteen, being twenty three, being thirty, being thirty six, and hopefully not being much more than that.
there was only a few open cuts on his stomach that night. Jeff trailed his fingers over the scars on his thighs. they were raised and ugly, and his legs were too fat. he could have been flawless if it wasn't for himself.
in another life, he was perfect.