Alternative Reality

She sat in silence, her head bowed low, her long, black hair cascading onto the table. The room became silent. Very silent.

“I miss him. My dad.” She said, barely audible, her voice cracking. “I hate him for leaving me but I want to get to know him also. I don’t know why, but I do. I accidentally ran into him while shopping and I went to him, hoping he would smile and hug me. But he didn’t. He just said “Hi” and kept on walking. He didn’t even turn to look at me.”

“How did you handle that?” I asked.

“Oh, it didn’t bother me. I just turned numb and thought “What the hell.” Later on I did cry.”

Later on, she did more than just cry. If you do not know what a “cutter” is, I will tell you. A cutter is someone who casts out, temporarily at least, the emotional pain by exchanging it for physical pain. I have seen too many scarred arms and legs to know this is not uncommon and this self hurt method terrifies me. Most of this pain, or at least with those youth I talk with, is caused by mothers or fathers who have placed a higher importance on their own issues, rather than those of their children. Those parents who ignore the needs of security, of love and connectedness that these kids so desperately crave and deserve.

Alcohol and drug use runs rampant here. With domestic and sexual abuse a close second. For many of these youth, these events becomes the cyclic reality that is carried over, generation to generation.

“My dad left when I was born and I have never seen him.” Another young lady shared with me.

“My mom still talks about him and she told me he is dying of cancer. I would really like to see him before he dies.” She is beginning to get that watery, thousand yard stare. I am wondering where she will take this.

“All us kids have different fathers but I live with grandma. She protects me and I can talk to her. But she is 91 and when she dies, my world will change. She can’t protect me anymore. ” She looks at me, wondering where I will take that.

“Never tell anyone that you love them, unless you really mean it.” She continues, the tears beginning to cloud her vision.

She, a cutter also. Where does one go when the pain becomes so overwhelming? And how does one get to where these kids realize that there is an outlet where they can speak and let flow all that shit they keep bottled up, waiting to explode onto a razor?

Another youth, a young man, sits uneasily, fidgeting in his seat, listening to his peers talk about their pain. This one is quiet. As he sits, hearing those appalling stories, I observe that this pain he is holding onto is slowly coming to the surface. Quietly rising within, approaching and surfacing within his eyes. His face has flushed to a pasty scarlet, his eyes blurred, but he does not speak…. yet. In time, once the trust has been laid out before him, he may open himself up and his pain will flow like those of his peers. I do hope so.

I am learning that to have someone listen to their words is very important to them.