I hear it all the time.
“Poor thing, with those scars on their wrists. They must be so lost.”
“What a freak, covering up their cuts. Daddy must be mean to them or something.”
“They’re too young to know what depression is.”
“What on earth could they be going through?”
“What compels them to hurt themselves, aren’t they going through enough pain?”
I hear this, and it’s all I can do to shake my head.
To look at the poor soul in empathy.
Because I know.
I’ve felt it.
The lead in my veins, the weight that simply comes with living each second.
It hits me even now, in this stage of my life. The desire to feel any other kind of pain than this excruciating numbness.
To finally get the burning poison out of my veins so that I can get out of bed and move on with my day.
But this seemingly counteractive method of healing comes with its scars.
And sometimes, it is the only method of healing people can get.
And I know.
No matter how hard I want to help, it is all I can do to nod in solidarity.
Because I’ve felt it.
I’ve lived with it.
I’ve lived past it.
And I pray that they can live past it too.