“Go ahead, I dare you.”
Like venom, those words struck poison right in my heart. I held the razor blade, inched deeper into the luke warm water, and sobbed. I couldn’t do it. I lost the dare.
She dared me to plunge those razors into my wrist after I threatened I could. My whole teenage spirit hurt desperately; I only wanted her to stop me, to plead for my life, to tell me I was worth more, to show me she loved me. But she was far too smart for me. She knew I wouldn’t do it. Mother’s know these things, don’t you know?
“You are so stupid.”
“You are so ugly.”
Alone in my hormonal, awkward, adolescent world, I felt comfort in the only place it was offered. And then,
I got pregnant.
I got a trailer and played grown-up.
I had a string of boyfriends.
Life hurt and felt out of control.
I eventually moved back in with my dad, who lived about six states away from my mom, and tried to regain “normal.”
New clothes, homework, a curfew. Normal.
When I allow myself to wonder through the memories of that time, I almost think it was another life, one completely foreign to me. I’m now sitting in my nice suburban home, with my good husband and three healthy, well-fed, well-clothed, much-loved babes. We live “normal.”
But I was “that” girl.
And she was hurting and desperate and just wanted to be loved.
She just wanted to be held and comforted.
She just wanted the me that is here now.
And she wants you. She needs you.
If you see her in your child’s school, or in your neighborhood, talk to her. Be kind and open. Show her love and grace. Show her the savior. She is an outsider, the bad girl, the one it would be so easy to give up on.
Don’t give up on her.
She just might have something worth saying one day.
By Sarah Mae, SarahMae.com