As far as I know, every teenager of this generation knows someone who cuts. In fact, self harm is so common that it doesn’t come as a surprise to me when I see someone’s arms slashed with fresh slices. It’s cruel reality, to live in a place where physical pain distracts you from the real pain inside you. But how would I know? I’m fortunate enough to have never done it myself.
I have a friend who was once very close to me, let’s call her Flora. Actually, I still like to believe that we’re quite close. But let’s be real, the only time I see her is in class. But it’s come to our attention that we don’t spend enough time together. So my happy go lucky friend, let’s call her Anne, convinced her to come with us to enviro club. Flora was the DJ and she controlled our science teacher’s computer. Then when we were dancing like idiots and the two boys in the club were occupied, she started scratching her arm. She asked us if we knew how to tell if something was infected. When she rolled up her sleeve we saw her wrist, scarred and an angry red, a fresh cut, much deeper than the others, still wide open from the previous morning. Get it checked out, we told her. She rolled her sleeve back down and was quiet for the rest of lunch.
She’s beautiful and talented and has the worst self esteem ever. In her eyes all she sees of herself is fat, ugly, and stupid. Flora’s life definitely isn’t perfect. It’s like life gave the girl lemons but took the liberty of squeezing the juice in her eyes first. And maybe there isn’t a quick fix for depression, but I want there to be.
In the summer she’s moving away. Maybe because her mom is too stressed. Maybe it’s to get away from everything in this city that ever did her wrong. And I hope to god it will be a clear slate, where she can start over. Because when I see her again in 5 years, it would be a blessing to see her scars finally healing.