In Praise of Talking

                 It was any other summer. The crickets could barely be heard above the roar of the silent night, broken only by the strength of the sprinkler or the laughter of a child. It was hot that summer, hotter than usual. The days stretched out like the reach of an eagle’s feathers and nights were sticky and suffocating. It was any other summer; we were settled in our new house and sidewalk chalk and sand decorated our pockets. Sure, it was any other summer.

                Other than the weight, undetectable at times, pressing persistently like a mother’s hand on my chest. It was always there, like the stars that became invisible in the sunlight, but sometimes there was more pressure than others. Sometimes, you could hear the faint crack of my bones under the paperweight that did not permit the flight of my happiness. It’s hard to pinpoint when and where and how that weight was placed under my skin, but it’s safe to say that fourteen-year-old summer was the catalyst to its thunder.

                At first I thought it was hormones. Then I was lazy. Then I had no direction. After a while, I was ungrateful. I was immature. I was over dramatic. I was a walking head case. The unspoken judgement that followed me like a dust cloud was thick like the tears coating my voice. I was confused, I didn’t understand why summer was supposed to be the best time of the year but it was my worst.

                I had a best friend that summer, let’s call her Katy. She seemed to understand the weight, the harmful words that involuntarily flooded from my lips. She had been dealing with my demons for longer than I, and her experienced tongue and hand taught me how to evade the darkness. Or so I thought. In reality, Katy pushed me down the rabbit hole farther than Alice herself and I was so lost in that night time that I thought I had found daylight.

                Self-injury is a precarious road to be traveling a hundred miles an hour on. For us, at least, it was a way to take into our own hands the pain that seemed to be inflicted on us by some higher, celestial power. I don’t know, to this day, what our goal was. It carried many labels: an addiction, a form of control, a cry for help, a suicidal tendency. No, it wasn’t suicidal, it was simply a form of self-medication. No, it wasn’t self-medication, it was a suicidal tendency.

                It was when, towards the autumn, that my counselor said,

"I'll see you next week," to which I replied

"Maybe."

But she grabbed me and she made me promise that she would see me next week.

And she did.

And that's what it was, a weekly, sometimes daily, act of getting up, of making it through the day, of making it through the night.

                It is terrifyingly sad that that’s what it took to bring to light the darkness that had been suffocating me for quite some time. It was completely unnecessary, and could have been avoided. Thankfully, it forced me to seek professional help and now I have learned to deal with my demons in healthier ways. But I have made it my mission to ensure that no one has to suffer through what Katy and I suffered through to get help. No one has to teeter on the edge of the bridge to learn how to talk themselves down. No one has to end it all, just in order to breathe again, somewhere where the weight can be lifted, somewhere where happiness can be real.

"Hope is real. Help is real. Stop the bleeding."

"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été." - Albert Camus