Broken Can Be Beautiful

There are three things you have to know about me.  1) I will not change myself for you or anyone else. 2) I am not made of stone, no matter how I may pretend, and 3) I will do anything for my friends.  Last year, I learned that those you hold in the highest esteem are softer than stone as well, no matter how much they may make you believe otherwise, and that I would have to work harder than I realized to keep my vow to one of my friends in particular.1

My best friend, Hillary, has the power to completely take control of a room.  The creativity and humor that shine behind her eyes draw people to her like magnet to metal.  I am not ashamed to say that, in the past, I have felt massively overshadowed by such a person.  However, I have never resented her; she deserves the spotlight.  She was born for it.  That is why it was such a shock when she confided in me about her problem.2

Hillary cut herself.  She cut herself with staples, thumbtacks, Xacto knives, and safety pins.  She cut herself to feel alive, to replace internal pain with external, to release the blood flowing within her that boiled with hatred and fear for her world and for herself.  She cut her arms, her legs, and her sides, and I did not understand.  How could a human being do this to herself, and why would she?3

I remember watching her tug at her sleeves, revealing ragged scars of varying shapes and sizes, colors ranging from red to pink to white.  I was confused.  I had never seen Hillary without a smile on her face.  She had a hundred friends.  Her parents had never been divorced, and money had never been a problem.  What did she have to be so unhappy about?  Apparently, Hillary was not as comfortable in her skin as I had always imagined.  She told me she was her own worst enemy, that the mirror was her darkest nightmare, and to fight through life each day, her greatest fear.  Her grades were sliding rapidly on a downward slope,4

but she just could not listen to the lessons being presented to her.  At night she cried and carved notches deep into herself, counting off another day of anguish.  In the day, she prayed for night, so she could heal herself, however artificially.5

I realized she had trusted me with her secret for a reason.  She could not carry this burden alone, nor should she have to.  I prepared to hoist half of her load onto my shoulders.  I began what I called "Hillary-proofing" my geometry class, gathering all the tiny, bent-in staples stuck into the carpet around our desks.  I gave pep talks several times daily, desperately attempting to build up her courage, to help her know she was not alone!  Still, she brought me stories of blood-soaked shower stalls and searing, burning candles.  One morning, Hillary stopped me in the hall and said, "I tried to kill myself last night."  She pulled her sleeves up to her elbows to reveal long, jagged lacerations, fresh and angry, screaming up at my disbelieving eyes.  I took her wounded wrists in my hands and kissed them each softly.  My eyes filled with her pain, but I would not let tears fall.  Hillary stared back at me apologetically.  Then we parted ways.6

There is an overused cliche about the masks that embellish us so we do not have to cope with the backlash that revealing our true self to the world would bring.  However, perhaps it is used so frequently because it is such a perfect metaphor.  How can we expect the world to accept us when we cannot truly accept ourselves?7

I remember describing Hillary at this time as "tragically beautiful."  She was so broken and fragile, but seemed so STRONG, capable of so much because she had already faced so much despair and disappointment.  I could see she had fallen, but I could also see that one day in her future, she would stand taller than angels.  It is hard to believe that broken can be beautiful when all around you beauty is personified as irritatingly symmetrical and unobtainably perfect.8

Hillary is better now; most of her pieces are now fitted back in place.  However some holes still remain, which makes it easy for conflict to disassemble her again.  It is said that "what does not kill us only makes us stronger," and perhaps that is true.  However, I believe it is more likely that everything we face weathers us down just a little more, and it takes greater courage to continue persevering.  One thing remains certain to me, and I'll preach it to my grave:  broken can be beautiful.9