"I really miss your writing," she wrote.
"I really miss your writing," she wrote.
"Hmm," I wrote back. "Maybe I should write again."
One day later I am standing in a room with people who are there to celebrate a life while mourning a loss. There are about a thousand children and they are joyful in a way that only children can be. Tears mix with the happy shouts and laughter of the little ones, and it is a perfect illustration of the evening. My niece sees me, and she heads for me. Her face smiles as she walks to me, but her eyes do not. Her eyes show relief and an infinite sadness. She wraps her arms around me. I hold her and my heart hurts for her. It takes me only a second to realize she's not letting go, and that is fine by me. I wrap my arms and my coat around her and try to give her a safe place to cry in a room full of people. She is so young for this...I remember this. Nothing should hurt so much when you're that young. It is the most unfair of things, that you can hurt so much and feel so alone....everyone else hurts, too, and your pain seems small to the world because you aren't the only one feeling it. And this child, she feels everything so very deeply....she is like me in this.
I wasn't close to the man who isn't with us anymore, but I am close to those that loved him. I look around the room and am unable to look away from the little boy with the tie on. Little boys in black pants and white shirts and ties will always mean tragedy for me. I've been to too many funerals and memorials for them to mean anything else. They can mean much--weddings and Easters and Sunday mornings. But for me, even in these times, when I see little boys in ties and white shirts, I think of tragedy.
I've been in therapy again for months now. It's helping a lot, which I don't understand, because we rarely talk about anything I'd consider big. We never really talk about the bad things--the thing that happened to me, the rage that I sometimes feel, or the cutting...until today. Today, we talked about the cutting.
Even here, on my blog, I rarely name the thing. Over seven years, I can count on one hand the number of times I've come out and named it. Cutting. Self injury. See? I'm braver now. I think maybe I'll be braver from now on.
I used to live in rage. I felt it for so long that it was my normal. Volatile, horrible, powerful, cold. I feel that rage less and less now. Is it strange that I miss it, just a little? Perhaps. The truth is now that things just aren't that simple. We are all flawed and things are so complex and multifaceted that no one thing can accurately describe what things are anymore. I can't feel the rage for so much of what I used to, because I understand too much now.
"The worst thing about self injuring is the isolation," I told him. At first, you think no one else on earth feels like you do, and that even if they did they would never intentionally hurt themselves--that's just crazy. Then it becomes the Secret. It becomes the thing you can never, ever tell anyone. It's like sexual abuse all over again. No one will believe you and you can never, ever, ever tell. And it's such a big part of who you are--the cutting, the pain, the worrying that you're going crazy, the wondering why and the wanting to do it again--that everything else starts to feel like a lie. And now it feels like no one really knows you, and they can't, because if they did they would lock you up or run away screaming. The worst thing is the isolation.
Tonight I wanted to write. Partly because she wrote that I should, and I thought that maybe my writing helped her in some way, and because I love her more than I love to breathe. Partly because of the little boy in the black pants and the white shirt and the tie. Partly because of the little girl that I held that took me back to when I was her age and told myself that I could not cry, that I had to be strong, that this was the most important thing. That was the day that I started learning how to turn it off, all the things that hurt and made me want to cry. It was the day the numbness started creeping in. And partly because of the talking about the cutting today, because the isolation is the worst thing.
I wanted to write, to release a little and to feel on paper. But maybe I'm also writing to be braver. To say the things that aren't easy. Maybe I'm writing to say that the worst thing is the isolation, but that I'm not alone at all. Once I chose to tell, to finally reach out, I wasn't alone anymore. The isolation became the lie.
Maybe I'm writing to say to you that you are not alone in this. The isolation is the worst thing, but you don't have to stay there. You were never meant to do this alone. You aren't alone.
https://twloha.com/find-help/local-resources/
"Hmm," I wrote back. "Maybe I should write again."
One day later I am standing in a room with people who are there to celebrate a life while mourning a loss. There are about a thousand children and they are joyful in a way that only children can be. Tears mix with the happy shouts and laughter of the little ones, and it is a perfect illustration of the evening. My niece sees me, and she heads for me. Her face smiles as she walks to me, but her eyes do not. Her eyes show relief and an infinite sadness. She wraps her arms around me. I hold her and my heart hurts for her. It takes me only a second to realize she's not letting go, and that is fine by me. I wrap my arms and my coat around her and try to give her a safe place to cry in a room full of people. She is so young for this...I remember this. Nothing should hurt so much when you're that young. It is the most unfair of things, that you can hurt so much and feel so alone....everyone else hurts, too, and your pain seems small to the world because you aren't the only one feeling it. And this child, she feels everything so very deeply....she is like me in this.
I wasn't close to the man who isn't with us anymore, but I am close to those that loved him. I look around the room and am unable to look away from the little boy with the tie on. Little boys in black pants and white shirts and ties will always mean tragedy for me. I've been to too many funerals and memorials for them to mean anything else. They can mean much--weddings and Easters and Sunday mornings. But for me, even in these times, when I see little boys in ties and white shirts, I think of tragedy.
I've been in therapy again for months now. It's helping a lot, which I don't understand, because we rarely talk about anything I'd consider big. We never really talk about the bad things--the thing that happened to me, the rage that I sometimes feel, or the cutting...until today. Today, we talked about the cutting.
Even here, on my blog, I rarely name the thing. Over seven years, I can count on one hand the number of times I've come out and named it. Cutting. Self injury. See? I'm braver now. I think maybe I'll be braver from now on.
I used to live in rage. I felt it for so long that it was my normal. Volatile, horrible, powerful, cold. I feel that rage less and less now. Is it strange that I miss it, just a little? Perhaps. The truth is now that things just aren't that simple. We are all flawed and things are so complex and multifaceted that no one thing can accurately describe what things are anymore. I can't feel the rage for so much of what I used to, because I understand too much now.
"The worst thing about self injuring is the isolation," I told him. At first, you think no one else on earth feels like you do, and that even if they did they would never intentionally hurt themselves--that's just crazy. Then it becomes the Secret. It becomes the thing you can never, ever tell anyone. It's like sexual abuse all over again. No one will believe you and you can never, ever, ever tell. And it's such a big part of who you are--the cutting, the pain, the worrying that you're going crazy, the wondering why and the wanting to do it again--that everything else starts to feel like a lie. And now it feels like no one really knows you, and they can't, because if they did they would lock you up or run away screaming. The worst thing is the isolation.
Tonight I wanted to write. Partly because she wrote that I should, and I thought that maybe my writing helped her in some way, and because I love her more than I love to breathe. Partly because of the little boy in the black pants and the white shirt and the tie. Partly because of the little girl that I held that took me back to when I was her age and told myself that I could not cry, that I had to be strong, that this was the most important thing. That was the day that I started learning how to turn it off, all the things that hurt and made me want to cry. It was the day the numbness started creeping in. And partly because of the talking about the cutting today, because the isolation is the worst thing.
I wanted to write, to release a little and to feel on paper. But maybe I'm also writing to be braver. To say the things that aren't easy. Maybe I'm writing to say that the worst thing is the isolation, but that I'm not alone at all. Once I chose to tell, to finally reach out, I wasn't alone anymore. The isolation became the lie.
Maybe I'm writing to say to you that you are not alone in this. The isolation is the worst thing, but you don't have to stay there. You were never meant to do this alone. You aren't alone.
https://twloha.com/find-help/local-resources/
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