(This is part of a cross post from another blog of mine)
"When I stand before thee at the day's end, thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing."
So its been over a year since I arrived in Texas. And what an amazing year. . .full of hope and pain and loss and joy...and growth.
I was not doing well when I arrived. I was stressed and barely making it through each day. I struggled with accepting love. I struggled with reasoning with myself.
It hasn't been easy. Those close to me know how much time it took me to cast off the downtrodden cloud that hovered over me when I arrived...and part of it will always be there.
So what have I learned? How can I sum up so much, in something so small and insignificant as a blog?
Everything I have learned. Every argument fought, every tear shed and every laugh and smile...can be summed up in a three inch scar on my leg.
For many years, since my elementary/junior high years...I was a cutter. Hell, I was a cutter before being a cutter was "cool". The behavior was and is not healthy. But I was young, and stupid and instead of turning to drugs and alcohol like my parents did, and promiscuous sex like some of my friends. I directed that anger, that lack of understanding and that need to control inward. I knew I was better than those emotions, I knew I was better than letting the stresses of my life drag me down. So it was a way of punishing myself....which of course led to more feelings of disappointment...and more cutting.
It came to a head in junior high (my freshman year of high school) While in art class, working on ink blocking, I had pushed the sleeve of my shirt up to get out of the way of the messy project. Despite the warm May weather, I usually dressed in..what in many ways was the style. The long john top and flannel shirt. Very grunge. And very good at hiding the cuts and gashes on my arms and belly. Not to mention the dramatic weight loss that came from yet another self destructive behavior of mine.
Unfortunately, my art instructor was a very observant man. And as he and I would oft times debate subjects in class, he dropped by my table to discuss something of relevance at the time. Not realizing what I was doing, I reached up to push my hair behind my ears and that was when he stuck. He grabbed my arm, forcing the sleeve up my emaciated and red arm. The look of disgust, fear and shame in his eyes was earth shattering. I realized that what I thought was a simple coping mechanism that would not affect others...really did hurt others almost the same as me. While I suffered the physical pain from the cutting, those that cared...suffered the emotional and psychological ramifications of seeing someone they care for in pain and suffering and not knowing how to help...how to fix it.
A few hours later, I was called into the counselor's office. There she sat, on the sofa opposite me...I was used to this. I had often been called into her office to "chat" as my older brother had recently been prosecuted and sentenced to prison, and my parents marriage had finally come unraveled, the counselor often checked in with me to make sure that I wasn't doing anything stupid like....smoking pot and drinking beer.
I figured thats all it was, until I saw the nurse come in. . .and the principal. I was told to remove my shirt, and to open my bag. The nurse came and checked my wounds, and while none of them were deep enough to be infected or to warrant stitches, she cleared me and agreed not to call the hospital. I begged the counselor and principal not to tell my parents. Whether or not they did I do not know. My parents never said anything of it, my cutting utensils were taken away...and I learned the lesson...for a while. My cuts healed, and for the most part I escaped unscathed aside from a small scar less than an inch long.
The years went on, and while I was usually good about not cutting, there were times I slipped. But nothing major. And few and far between
Until this year, a few months ago actually. Things were not bad, I had been through worse. But with the stress of it all, and my increasing feelings of apathy and indifference...my insomnia flared up again. I stopped eating. I was taking trazadone and Tylenol PM just to sleep for more than 30 minutes a night (usually the meds got me about 2 hours)
Then one night, it all came to a head. I started what would be one of the shortest, yet most damaging cutting cycles I've experienced. After the first 'session' I knew how stupid it was and confessed my behavior. He was understanding, not condoning yet not judgmental.The next day at work, the lack of sleep (it had been 3 days at that point) and lack of eating (another three days) caught up with me, I collapsed as was rushed to the emergency room.
When they hooked me to the heart monitor, the tech that had taken my blouse off saw the criss cross cuts spanning my chest and stomach.The doctor asked me what they were from and when I refused to answer him he gave me a disgusted look and some of the worst treatment I've ever received from a medical professional.
I was released from the hospital and went home. Still exhausted, still hungry and still withdrawn. A girl from work was incessantly texting me and wanting to talk on the phone and at that point I didn't have the energy to say no or to turn the phone off.
I was sitting at the computer, talking to Nate about everything we were both going through and looking at my dismal attempts at writing. Lying next to the keyboard was the contents of my pockets from work. My keys, my cell phone, my watch, and my box cutter. A simple, silver piece of metal about 4 inches long. with an enclosed razor blade. I brushed the thought out of my head and undressed, pulling on just a dressing gown and curling up in the chair with my legs on the desk. The pill bottle sitting next to the box cutter...I picked up the box cutter, unsheathed the blade and twirled it in my hands. Not thinking of anything but the way the sun hit the blade, the sharpness of the blade, and the glittering effect the sun had on it as I twirled it in my hand....and without forethought or planning. Without pain, or sense. I sliced into the nearest part of my body. I felt nothing but cold. I felt nothing of the blade biting into my skin, into the tissue and down to the muscle. The blood came, red and bright against the pale skin and white gown. coursing down my leg and pooling on the desk. I dropped the blade and attempted to clean up the mess...a few moments later I heard a sharp knock on the door. Before I could even get up I knew it was Nate. I had dissapeared from the conversation. I had disconnected from him in a way that he realized everything was not well.
I opened the door and without a word curled up on the sofa. He came in, and with one look at the red stains on my dressing gown knew what I had done. I prepared for the yelling, for the look of disgust and for the door slamming behind him. But it never came. He sat down, looked at the wound, wiped the blood away, applied pressure to the profusely bleeding gap and wrapped his arms around me. He held me as I cried. One of the few times anyone has ever seen me cry in many years. He comforted me. In a way no one had reached out to comfort me in...many...many years..if ever. He held me until I started to dose off. Covered me told me quietly to get stitches if it didn't stop bleeding and quietly left....taking my box cutter with him...and along with that, part of the dark force invading my mind.
As soon as the door quietly closed behind him, I knew our friendship, my life, his life and my future had changed.
He lost respect for me that day. The person he had seen as a strong, stable individual had been reduced to an unsteady emotional wreck.
Yet my respect for him, grew. He had put aside his personal feelings, his personal demons to help me in my hour of need. He had cared for a friend in a way none of my other friends had. He had cared for me physically, and emotionally...and by doing that, healed me spiritually. After he left, I had one of the most frank and deepest discussions with God. I knew I was more than that. I knew I was more than a sad person that couldn't handle what he put in my way. I have a gift, and the more I go on without using that gift, the more I disrespect myself.
Many people ask why I am so close to a man that I have no romantic plans for, that I am content being the best friend, and knowing that our friendship would never be more concrete than that. . .How can I be so close to someone that I argue with constantly? Because despite our differences, despite our issues. We love each other. Not in the romantic way, not in the brother/sister way...not in any way that can be classified other than we are friends. We contribute to each other's growth. We watch out for one another and we are there through the good times, the weddings, the joys of new love...and the sorrow of death and loss, as we struggle to find ourselves. And to rectify our relationships with God.
We are friends not because we need each other, but because we make each other stronger. . .
And that he taught me the greatest lesson of all. . .
To love myself. To accept my flaws, and yes, even my gifts.
The scar on my leg most likely is the biggest flaw he and others see on me..evident by his avoidance of ever looking at it. A sign of weakness, a sign of pettiness, and a sign of self destruction.
Yet within those lines, within the mark that will never fade...is my rebirth and my salvation. I learned the true value of friendship and love. The value of myself, and I saw the reason for my problems. I was not cursed. I was just not accepting God's gifts. The gifts I have within, the gift of a teacher many years ago that was concerned when he didn't have to be...and the gift of a friend that touches my life every day.
Am I proud of my cutting? No, its my biggest flaw and my biggest vice. The key to my destruction. Do I condone it? Not at all. It is one of the most selfish, disgusting, unhealthy and immoral things you can do.
You are desecrating the body given to you by your Creator. And you are killing your soul.....
But in this instance, my scars show my wounds and also...my healing.
Labels: friends, Nate, SI
