Learning to Listen

Learning to Listen

Dripping steadily down my arm, the blood felt warmer than usual. Perhaps it was because there was much more this time.

It fell freely, with no apparent direction, simply weaving its way around and over the raised scars already present.

The blood was dark; it seemed powerful and alive, on some as yet undetermined mission. It was primed, ready for action, eager to fight on my behalf.

I had no doubt that it was in pain. My arm trembled in front of me. My wrist throbbed every second sending wave after wave of agony to my mind, released as tears which fell without elegance into my lap.

I did my best to ensure the blood fell nowhere. Someone else would have to clean it up and that wasn’t fair. I had laid an old towel, the one I used when I coloured my hair, on the floor beside me and held my arm over it as I made my incisions.

It took an almost surgical precision to make the cuts in the right places. My result had to be perfect, otherwise I would look like nothing more than a foolish failure.

I had been down that road before and gained nothing for my tears or turmoil. Professionals viewed me with contempt, angry with me for wasting their precious time and resources. They had me in and out of the Accident and Emergency department in less than an hour, my pride more wounded than my skin. Nurses were short and abrupt, delivering care without compassion.

This time would be different. This time I had planned everything to perfection. This time I knew what I was doing; knew what I was saying. I had a distinct message.

For three years now, I had begged everyone around me to take notice; to listen to what I had to say. I wanted them to hear my pain, understand my suffering and, most importantly, show me how to take it away.

But words eluded me. I couldn’t describe my emotions, couldn’t label my feelings. Without words, no one could listen – but no one even tried. My silence was met with disdain, my tears with frustration.

“Listen to me”, I exclaimed.
“But you don’t say anything”.

I tried to, I tried so hard. I used all the words I knew yet I could never put my point across. Still I knew something in my life, in my mind, was not right. Why could nobody else see that? Wasn’t there somebody somewhere who knew how to extract my expressions? Each therapeutic talking session left me for anxious and more full of emptiness.

So I gave my pain a physical front. Each time I ran the blade across my skin, I presented doctors with something they could diagnose and nurses with something they could treat. And I gave myself a valid reason to receive valid attention.

“Poor dear”, they said, as they ‘oohed’ and ‘coohed’ over me. I thought it would make them listen harder, try more intently to hear what I wanted to – but could not – say. Yet they didn’t. I was wrapped up and whisked out, dealt with and dumped, sent straight back to where I’d come from.

So I tried again. And again. And again. Each new attempt I made to receive understanding saw the ‘oohs’ and ‘coohs’ diminish and the ‘tut tuts’ increase. The professionals looked dismayed when they saw me. Their eyes said “not again”.

But I had to do it again or I would never be heard.

The pain in my arm had subsided. I made the last cut, causing my eyes to water and a short, quiet shriek to escape from my mouth. I sat staring at the bloody mess in front of me, trying to hold my arm steady.

The tremors hurt. Salt water fell from my face to my fresh wounds, causing me to flinch. The sudden movement caused me further pain.

Yet inside – in my mind, my heart, my soul – I felt peaceful and relaxed. The anxiety had left me and was replaced with a glorious sense of freedom. I knew this would work.

I took a damp cloth and ran it gently over my arm. I picked off the clumps of dried blood and examined my work.

The permanent scar I had created would mean people – all people would see me and know they had to listen to me, had to pay attention, had to at least try to understand.

The message carved deeply into my left arm was simple, straightforward, to the point.

“HEAR ME”