Letter Re: My Heart.

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter---bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

Because it is bitter,

And because it is my heart."

- Stephen Crane

I know that you must wonder about what caused the scars that run up my arms and legs and belly and breasts like tally marks.

Then again, you probably already know what they signify. I know this when I see the hurt look on your face, a wince that I feel more than I felt the razor’s sting. What you don’t know is why.

No one understands this about me, and I’m not sure I understand it myself. I look at the scars, some small and white, some tiny indents, some large, angry, purple, and screaming violence; some thick keloids that rest on my limbs like fat pink slugs. I try to remember just how they got there.

Then I taste blood, metallic in my mouth, and I remember. I remember feeling that hot blood rushing fast through pulsing arteries and knowing that if I didn’t let some out I would die, I would die in a choking rush of smothering heat, I would burst into flame and run screaming through the night city, unable to breathe, unable to stop myself, because it's all too much, I'm too much, life is too much.

Sometimes I forget the scars are there. I wear three-quarter-sleeved tops and don’t think a thing about it until I see confused eyes lingering on my arms. There’s nothing I can say. Nothing really justifies that sort of thing in the eyes of the world, does it?

It’s OK to strike out at others with words or fists or weapons, but we who have done it to ourselves are sick, defective, fatally flawed. I pull down my sleeves with ashamed fingers, and I don’t wear shorts.

The scars mark me as emotionally damaged, immature. Some people think they’re indicative of the "adolescent cry for help", a snap judgment that could probably be applied to many of my behaviors past and present. I don’t think I agree with this Tinkertoy-Freud diagnosis, but I don’t really have an unscarred leg to stand on as far as defending my maturity level or my knowledge of how the mind functions.

It’s hard to take, I know. When you looked up at me with questioning eyes while tracing the word FAT on my thigh, I didn’t know what to say. I wondered what I would say or do if I were in your place. Maybe I’d be disgusted. Maybe I’d write you off as a sick fuck. I think most people would. This is why I don’t date lawyers and doctors and investment bankers. I’ve dated two out of those three, now that I think about it, but those meanderings didn’t work out for obvious reasons.

I don’t relate well to people who haven’t been in therapy. That’s either funny or sad, depending how you look at it.

You’re covered in scars, too, but for different reasons. Two thick, painful-looking holes. A long line down your chest. A thick scar on the side of your head that makes me hurt to touch it, makes me rub the surrounding stubble with a mother’s touch. Your scars tell a scary story while mine shout out I HAVE ISSUES. We are both marked.

You’re the only person that’s ever touched the scars. You’re the only person that hasn’t asked too many questions, and I appreciate that more than you know. There is a lot of lost blood and a lot of scar tissue between us, and maybe that’s what drew us to one another. I do believe in that sort of thing, I guess. Call it kismet, call it whatever you want to, but like attracts like and damaged attracts damaged. It's one of those things I hate to admit.

I have never been the kind of person who lashes out at others. I don’t yell or scream or slap or kick at people who hurt me, even if they hurt me time and time again. This is because somewhere deep inside of my rock-hard, heavily scarred little heart hides a soft place that whispers, “Your fault.” My fault for what, you say? Everything. Anything. Most things, most days. If you’re not smiling, it’s probably my fault. If a man in Katmandu falls down a hill, I probably had something to do with it. I am very, very important, you know. In my mind, I influence the stars.

I’m better at ignoring that voice today, but I didn’t used to be. I used to tell it how sorry I was over and over and over again as if my Rainman-like mumblings would make it go away.

And because it was and sometimes is my fault, I have screamed at myself, pulled out my hair, and beaten myself with hard fists. I have broken blood vessels and bruised myself and watch myself bleed at the hands of more implements than I can recall. It’s all so very Girl Interrupted, I know. So clichéd, so very Angsty Young Caucasian. No young lady is complete without a history of frightening mental illness.

It’s less of a cliché and a sick demographical joke when you’re down in it, though. That I know.

It felt good at the time, just like most truly crazy things. That sounds so sick and wrong, but it’s so true, and if you’ve ever bitch-slapped someone who desperately deserved it, you know this feeling. You feel vindicated, strong, triumphant. You have won. You have achieved something that strengthens your inner self, and maybe you’re a little proud of that. Maybe you feel tougher for having lashed out. I know that I sometimes do.

The poem above beautifully illustrates how these scars came to be. When I first read it, years ago, my eyes welled up with gratitude and relief because someone had recognized the part of human nature, of my nature, that few people dare to examine.

My heart is bitter, but it is my heart, and how can I be ashamed? I’m trying to take my poisonous feelings and channel them into less harmful methods of expression, but I can’t hide what I’ve done to myself. All I can do is keep trying to move on. I haven’t hurt myself in a while now, and it feels strange but good.

I’m glad that you haven’t judged me. I’m glad that you didn’t turn your face away. And when you dipped your head and kissed my strange striped arms, I felt as soothed and as loved as anyone ever could.

Thank you.

8:13 p.m. - 2004-02-22
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