I survey their faces at the start of class, during my introduction, and notice the ones that may embark on the road to hell. No one can convince them not to travel it and very few turn back, not until they realize the climb out hurts far more than the fall. Utopia is a concept dependent upon current generations learning from our past mistakes. But the inherent folly in our nature is that we need to experience it firsthand, despite wisdom’s warnings.
One tells me that cutting helps release her anger and gives her a sense of control over it. I grimace, knowing anger is a non-optional response to pain, toxic waste that no one wants dumped near them. But anger demands expression, so we’re forced to stuff it down. Inevitably, like a beach ball submerged, it pops up elsewhere, like cutting.
I feel a tremendous connection to these kids, especially the one that sits just outside my periphery and pretends to be bored, nodding off. Later, she’ll admit to taking an oxy, an 80, enough to knock most of us on our ass, but she’s stingy about the details, the why, the true reason for doing something so reckless. Some jump right in the water, others dip a toe to see how painfully cold the plunge will be.
They size me up and write me off before I utter a word. Soon their expressions change as whatever stereotype I fit initially is shattered. Suddenly they can relate, perking as I tell their story, wondering how I know.
I still get nervous but eventually find a groove. I focus on the one avoiding eye contact or cracking jokes in the back corner, in other words, me. After, I bask in the adoration and check my blog incessantly for new followers. Occasionally someone like my cutter contacts me and tells me she heard something in my story...
I hope to reach them all but am satisfied to reach even one. Healing is like tunneling out of prison one spoonful at a time. I’m still going through the process, I guess that’s why they say, progress not perfection. After all, change is optional.
