Edema Rue

TW: self-harm

I don’t have a lot of classes anymore, but I do have a ceramics class. I haven’t taken the time to get to know many people, since I’m in a very different chapter of life than most of them, and I’m leaving this place behind in only a couple weeks. But there are a few special needs kids in my class, two of whom I’ve known for more than six years. One of them knows my name and says hi every time he sees me. He likes to tell people we’re friends, and I agree heartily. He also consistently complains about the dumb square hats we have to wear to graduate.

The other is lacking in some social skills. She’s sweet, and just normal enough that people don’t always realize her brain works differently. Today, she was critically commenting on the plate another student was making, offering unsolicited tips and judgement. The other student nodded and went along with it, and after a few minutes, was shaking a bottle of pink underglaze (similar to paint while also completely different). The lid wasn’t screwed on tightly enough, and it spilled over her arm and shirt.

This sweet girl, noticing a few moments later, asked what had happened to the student’s arm. The student, assuming that she meant the spilled underglaze, explained that it was nothing to worry about. My special needs friend shook her head, standing and crossing to the student. She flipped over the other girl’s arm, revealing a dozen thin red lines.

”No, there’s a pattern,” she insisted. “What happened?”

The girl mumbled some excuse, while another student and I shared a look behind the questioner’s back. A few minutes later, the bell rang, and we left.

That student doesn’t come to class often. It’s quite possible she has the class another period (or not at all) and comes to our class on her free time. I don’t know her name. I don’t know her story. I know she talks to another student who has gossip about everyone, and I know she laughs often. I don’t know how often she cries, or if her parents know, or if she has more than just scars. But that moment, the smile with another student at an innocent, naive question, has stuck in my mind. Is that the way we’re meant to react? Is the hurt we cause ourselves so ordinary that instead of commenting, we mock those who do?

Hurting oneself doesn’t give one access to a special club. It isn’t a badge that proves one’s pain is real. It is a private, dangerous struggle. It is a sign that help is needed. It’s a cry for help from someone who has lost their voice.

Be safe, okay? Not coddled, not afraid, but safe. Don’t run faster than you have strength: don’t handle everything until it kills you. Don’t judge people before you know their stories, and if you think someone is judging you, remember that they have a story of their own, that maybe their voice has been taken, and they are wishing desperately for a way to connect without hurting anyone. Be poised, be brave, be loving.

xo, eddie