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He first got into mental health stuff in '84, sometime after Halloween.
Lucas had said something that made him wonder.
“If I get another three musketeers, I’m gonna kill myself!”
He had been joking, obviously, but still.
It made Dustin wonder what else people did to themselves, considering if people actually killed themselves… some people did other things, right?
That's when he learnt about Self-Harm, the act of purposely harming yourself in any way.
It all seemed very odd to him. Why would you intentionally hurt yourself? But he couldn’t have a say. He doesn’t struggle mentally like that… Or at least he didn’t.
1985.
He just got back from camp Know Where, and he’s on a hill at night alone.
But that’s just because everyone left him there. He knew they didn’t believe that he actually had a girlfriend… But they didn’t have to leave him alone at night.
And, considering what had happened the previous 2 years, it just felt even worse. Will's leaving was understandable, but everyone else?... But whatever. It was fine. Yeah. Dustin was fine.
He wasn’t. Even though he intercepted a secret russian communication, and that was pretty awesome, he was still upset.
That night, when he got home, he looked in his desk and found an old pair of scissors, relatively sharp. Hasn’t been used for anything yet.
He remembered what he read books about last year… How easily people could get addicted to shit like this. But this is different. It's only going to be once, then never again. He’s just seeing how it feels, that’s it.
He opened the scissors and took the blade down to his wrist, then dragged it along. It didn’t bleed; it only created a faint mark.
That’s okay, though. Faint marks are enough. (until they’re not.)
He did it a couple more times, and there was now a total of 7 faint scratch-like marks on his left wrist.
One of them bled, but only a little bit.
He found a couple of Band-Aids and put them on his wrist.
He just had to hope no one questioned it.
1985, post-Starcourt Mall.
Well, to say that he felt bad was an understatement.
Indirectly, he had caused Robin and Steve to go through literal torture.
He endangered his best friend's 10-year-old sister.
He wished he had gone through the torture instead of Robin and Steve, he wished he had never let Steve attempt to face off demodogs last year, and he wished he had never raced Will that night in ‘83.
Everything has been his fault.
He grabbed the scissors. “Just one more time”, he told himself. Just… “one more time.”
He got Band-Aids and put them on his wrist.
9 marks, less faint than last time. Only by a bit, though. 3 bled this time.
No one had noticed last time, he’s hoping they don’t this time.
1986.
Since then, he had rarely done it. Only sometimes. If he’s really upset, or just… really bored.
But he isn’t addicted. (until he is.)
It's just an occasional thing. Nothing more.
“I’m not addicted”, he muttered to himself, picking up a razor blade instead of scissors.
“I’m not. I promise”, he spoke quietly to himself again. Probably aimed at his younger self that's still inside him somewhere…
But his actions contradicted his voice as he cut his wrist with the blade.
Then Eddie died in his arms.
Then he went slightly deeper.
15 fresh cuts. 15 bled. He bandaged his arm, having to ditch the Band-Aids entirely.
1987, maybe 1988.
He stopped caring.
Started pushing people away.
Maybe if he pushed them away, it would hurt less if they were to die.
Or maybe it’d hurt them less if he died.
Maybe he should die.
Either way was fine with him.
Cutting became a habit.
No, routine.
But he wasn’t addicted. It was just when he was bored. feeling down.
Nobody noticed, though.
Which is fine. He isn’t addicted. He can stop at literally any time.
Just not right now. Maybe later.
He got home from school one day, rather uneventful.
He walked to his desk in his room and subconsciously reached for the razor blade.
And–...oh.
Oh.
He wasn't addicted, until he was.