"I like my scars, they tell a story, but not one bloody and gory," began a poem I had begun to write down with red pen in a notebook. The notebook was a lot like me: nothing about it would seem to have something dark and mysterious buried within itself. The plain white cover, the cardboard back, the wire coil that never got caught on anything, and the cheesy lines of rhyme that stained the pages like blood on carpet all represent the dark maze I now had directions for. I had kept getting lost, stuck, and never understanding myself constantly before the day God helped me guide me in this first, most important step.

As a confirmand, my fellows and I were required to attend the NET (National Evangelizing Team) retreat that took place in our church during Advent. My friend and I felt that this five hour retreat was, well basically, not worth our time. We hardly had time for ourselves, let alone this. A part of me was reluctant to go, but a larger part of me knew I had little say in the matter. As for my friend, she felt even sicker than she had before by the time we were supposed to be at the retreat, so naturally I had to go alone. Even without my friend there, all the things they did to make us loosen up, like corny skits and small group discussions, did help me be more myself without a safety net person.

What got to me the most was small group. For small group, we were divided into small groups of the same gender and talked about stuff with one of the NET members. We did this several times and on the last time, we talked about the “testimonies,” which were the members’ personal experiences with God, we had heard from before. One thing common to the testimonies we had heard thus far was drugs, and we were talking about drugs and how addictive they can be. At this point, there were so many things I had wanted to say, but physically could not. The only thing I could get out was “Drugs aren’t the only thing that can be addicting.” Nobody really reacted to that, but our leader probably knew exactly what I was talking about, I just didn’t know how much.

Shortly after this small group meeting, we were transferred from the meeting room in the back of the church into the sanctuary itself where we were going to hear our last testimony and skit to go with it. All of it was about how this one member, Brandon, had all these pressures in his life and how Christ helped him rid himself of the burden they all carried. Although putting Christ in his life created more problems with his problems, he still kept him with him. We were told to go off into our own area in the church after this. Even though I had been going to that church since my infancy, the air in it couldn’t have felt heavier; it felt so heavy on me that I could barely walk. Most of the lights were off, giving the normally earthy brown colors a thin blanket of gray, and everything was so quiet that someone rustling paper could be heard on the opposite end of the church. I must have floated, because I could barely walk, to my designated pew, where they had set out these things for us: a Bible reading activity, a pen, a letter from Jesus, and a guide to Reconciliation (confession). The first thing that my hand subconsciously reached for was the letter from Jesus. It was only a conglomerated version of things Jesus had said in the Bible, but the words written on the page had more weight combined than the whole Bible itself. I could only read the first few lines before I had started to cry. These verses were not random, these were the things that people need, not necessarily want, to hear when they feel there is nothing left to their existence.

"…You did not choose me, I chose you (John 15:16)…How can I abandon you? My love for you is too strong (Hosea 11:8)…"

Later, after I had gone to the bathroom to get a wad of toilet paper, my small group leader and another member were going to each of us girls to pray with us. When they came to me, my small group leader asked me "Is there anything you want to pray with us about?"

All I was compelled to do was roll up my sleeve and show them my scars. I then learned just how much my small group leader knew what I was talking about. She did it, too. It’s not really one of those things really understood in our society, so she didn’t mention it when she gave us her testimony. She briefly told me about how she was able to overcome it.

"And now it’s like it’s not even a part of me,” she told me. I then noticed how faintly her tagalong's white rosary beads flickered in the gray-blanketed church, like a candle in the darkness.

Even though I still haven’t been fully able to stop, I now notice the days where it really isn’t a part of me anymore. In those five hours, I had begun to understand the darkness within myself, which has leaked to understanding the darkness in other people. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop for good, but that realization helped me pick out what I think God, or even just myself, wants me to do: help others realize that about themselves.

Note: I had to write a reflective essay for English class, and this was the only thing that was able to pour out of my fingers. If you think it’s just completely awkward to just admit something like SI to a teacher (or adult in general), just imagine how this was to present to the whole class. Yes, I presented this paper to my 7th period English class. I have no idea what possessed me to say what I did say, but I feel that I did not do this paper any justice with what managed to come out. I guess all I can say about how that ordeal went was that 1.) more peoples’ eyes were wetter than mine (I literally said “I can’t cry”) 2.) at least +2 people couldn’t even look at me 3.) I flat out exposed my scars (which I now kind of regret) and 4.) our teacher was proud that I did what I did. Well, after I went, volunteers weren’t in short supply. The next day, long story short, I had some spare time in the morning and went to the counselors’ office. This wasn’t the first time I had been in there, so to get to the point, I showed my usual counselor my paper (somewhat unawaringly ). She had to wipe tears from her eyes when she read it, which is why I was compelled to send it here.