Sometimes, you can watch the person you care about slip away and not even realize it.
There were so many things worth noticing. But nobody did. Nobody noticed the freckle just under his right eye. Nobody saw the way his face lit up whenever someone talked about human rights. Nobody got to hear him as he smiled and strummed his guitar.
Nobody knew he wanted to be an astronomer. Nobody saw the telescope set up right outside his window. Nobody sat there with him, into the night, as he explained every constellation, every star.
Nobody knew that he wanted to be one of those stars. So that he could feel bigger than himself. Nobody would listen.
And now he's gone.
Nobody got to know his story. Nobody got to hear about the abuse. Nobody got to be his first love. His first kiss. Nobody got to break his heart.
Nobody ever will.
Nobody ever got to hear him. Nobody knew what he had to say. And if they did, would it have not happened. Could that person have changed him in the long run? Could I have been the one to fix it, just with a smile? These are the questions that haunt me. If we would have showed compassion, would he have stopped himself?
Nobody will get to know.
So I'm feeling inspired. Ive recently come to terms with the fact that my school is full of screwed up people. But possibly for different reasons, but ill transition. Right now, I really feel that the time is right to make something more clear. I promised my best friend that I would teach people about this…
I'm sure you’ve been in a Hot Topic, and if you have, you’ve definitely seen or heard of To Write Love On Her Arms.
"To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide."
The point of this organization is that everyone can struggle with depression. Depression doesn’t have a face, it just exists. And we may not even be able to see it.
"We’ve learned that two out of three people who struggle with depression never seek help, and that untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide. In America alone, it’s estimated that 19 million people live with depression, and suicide is the third-leading cause of death among those 18-24 years old."
There are so many forms of depression. And 2 out of 3 of those strugling, don’t seek help. Untreated depression is the number one cause of suicide, and suicide is the third leading cause of death among teenagers "Experts estimate that 4% of the population struggle with self-injury. It has the same occurrence between males and females, even though in popular culture it can appear to be more prevalent among girls."
Emptiness, Inability to understand or express feelings, Loneliness, Fear, Past Abuse, Depression
So next time your in Hot Topic, don’t pass up buying one of their shirts. Your saving lives, not for some charity for sick/old people. But people like you. That need help. That need saving, support, and so many other things. I will be sporting one of these shirts, as soon as I get the cash. But for now, here’s the story the organization was founded on:
To Write Love On Her Arms
Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
