the warmth of the flame

Ever since I watched that episode of 7th Heaven, where someone made themselves vomit, I put it in the same category— still hurting yourself. When I started school, I was anxious and sad all the time. I didn’t have many friends. I’d sit in front of the toilet bowl, smelling that horrible scent of pee until I gagged. I did it every morning, every time the emotional pain became too much. Vomiting somehow made me feel like I could breathe again. Later, when the sadness returned, I tried cutting. It worked— but the sight of blood stopped me. A few years passed, and when the depression came back for the third time, I found the lighter. The smell of burning skin made me feel better— as if the pain and the heat pulled me back into reality. Anytime I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was underground with sand falling into my lungs, the click of the lighter gave me air again. The flame made me feel like I could get up and face life. It’s horrible because it seems to help, and terrifying because it does. I wish love, or encouraging words, or a hug, or simply being with someone felt as good as that lighter. Then I wouldn’t have a problem. I’d be “normal-ish,” not some freak who can’t handle herself. Maybe the tru