1978-79

My heart still aches for her. I only wish she had known. That someone else had recognized it sooner and reached out to help her. I know that in the end, you can only help yourself. You can’t save anybody else, and nobody else can save you. But knowledge is power.

She was young. She was sorely immature and painfully naive. She just wanted people to like her. Desperately wanted people to like her. Everybody had to like her. In the days, she was sunny and affable. She worked hard to ensure she was recognized. She gave everything she had to anyone who would take it. Because, you see, that would make them like her more. When she was left with nothing, she would sit in the light of her room in the dark of the night and silently ache. She felt empty and abandoned. She had many friends, but she felt so alone.

She fought desperately for the affection of those who did not mutually admire. In a futile attempt to patch a hole that was already beside the point, she put most of her energy and focus into these relationships. She could not fully accept the overwhelming love from most of those around her. She was too invested, sometimes obsessively, in those who pushed her away. It was the ones who taunted her and condescended her and robbed her of her soul whose love she desperately wanted to seal. If they loved her, she would be alright. If they just loved her, everything would be okay.

At school, her head was a mess. Her mind was always full and racing. She had trouble concentrating. Logically, she thought she should be smart. At one time, she had been smart. But there came a point when she just couldn’t keep up. She fought to stay with the others with whom she had originally been grouped. The smart kids. They had stayed smart — why hadn’t she? Why did everything seem so easy for everyone else? Her grades naturally slipped. She decided at an early age that she was incapable of academic success. Some adults blatantly told her the same. Her spirit was broken. So, instead of focusing on her studies, she spent a great deal of time trying to make those around her laugh. People like laughing. When they were laughing, they liked her.

She was also a small girl. Very small. And awkward. She would not fully develop until she was 22 years old. She did not know then it was called delayed maturation. She did not know this probably affected her mental and emotional maturation as well. She just thought she was different than everyone else. She did not think she was pretty. She was sure nobody else would think so, either. Her personality, it seemed, would have to carry her through.

And she was sick. She often felt physically sick, but couldn’t describe why. She wanted to ask for help, but didn’t know how. They said she was dramatic. They said she was faking. So, she took measures to make it seem more real. She knew she wasn’t really sick, but couldn’t place why she felt that way. Why was she so scared? So nervous? Why did her brain often shut down and convince her to leave everything behind?

And she often wondered …in the times that became too tortuous, and she had been suicidal, and said so, and even attempted, why did they not do something? Why did they not reach out? Recognize there was a problem? Call someone and assure her everything was going to be okay? Hold her hand and stroke her hair and cry for her? Why did they pass it off as the result of character flaws? Why did they tell her she just couldn’t be that way? And why did they tell her to stay away from her friends…that she would ultimately ruin their lives with her problematic nature? That they were going somewhere and she wasn’t? Why did they hurt her when they should have been helping? Did they hope she would die, too? Did they pray God would end her misery, just like she did?

On the outside, it may not have made sense. Logically, she was intelligent. She was physically capable and socially adept. She was well-liked and talented. She should have been successful. Her life should have been easy. How could they have known that something was eating her away inside?

She was but a sweet, gentle girl with a broken brain.

I look back on her now and I want to reach out to her. I want to kiss her on the forehead and wrap my arms around her shoulders and tell her everything is going to be alright. I want to hold her while she cries, and gently rock her back and forth. I want to assure her that there is something better for her. That she is not stupid. That she is worthy. That she doesn’t have to fight forever. I want to take her by the hand and show her all the wonderful things she can be, all the amazing people she will meet, and all of the fabulous things she will accomplish. I want to look her in the eyes and tell her not to give up. To trust in God. To accept help when she needs it. To stop beating herself up and start believing she’s okay. I want her to know she’s okay.

There is part of me, though, that still doesn’t like her. This is the part of me I think I still need to reconcile.

But I know I can’t truly hate who I was, because, without her, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I can’t truly hate where I’ve been, because I’ve gained too many valuable gifts on the way. And I can’t truly hate who I’ve loved, because even in the terrible times, they taught me, too.

And so I think I must accept her. Aching and lonely. Desperate and crying. Nervous and afraid. She was me, and I was her.

And I don’t think she has to hurt anymore.