Letter to Renee, the third grader

[cflage]

Dear Renee,

There's no way you'd remember me now. We were in third grade together. We weren't good friends, but sometimes we would have reason to talk. In 1993 you shared a thought with me that no one had ever shared before. I was upset one day and didn't want to talk about it. Seemingly out of nowhere, you told me that if I was sad about the way people were mistreating me, I shouldn't hide it or it could make a "permanent scar." I remember my reaction being along the lines of "I can just do whatever I want and be fine, I don't have to listen to you."

But in that moment, I remember my throat tensing up and wanting to cry just because someone in this world actually saw I was hurting. I felt ashamed that someone could see it. I tried to hide that pain every day and someone I barely even talked to could see it! I hadn't hidden it well enough. You touched on my fear, that I might show my pain and no one would care, or worse, would make me feel ridiculous for feeling hurt.

I didn't think you were someone I could have trusted with my secret, so what I did was to shut you out permanently. I could pretend like it never happened. I never spoke to you again. But in the quiet, when I was alone, when I was in pain, I could still hear you saying that term, permanent scar, over and over. I didn't like that term. It felt like something I had heard on television. Something of fiction that I wasn't entitled to claim for myself. Scars weren't something I was allowed to have, I was supposed to be better than that.

I remember judging you harshly for bringing it up, thinking mean-spirited thoughts about how weak you must be if you had to get help. To the child I was, therapists were things you got if you were a bad kid. It was a punishment. You couldn't behave, and so now someone is going to force you to. In my mind, you couldn't have been a good kid. I judged that you had no right to tell me what to do at all. And then you moved away somewhere and time passed.

I was so wrong about everything, Renee. I'm sorry.

Years passed, the bullies got bigger and stronger and angrier. And more bored. Terrible things happened, and people all knew I was in pain. They could see me sitting alone every day. They could see my bruises. They could see my humiliation. They could see me sweating profusely because gym class was the next period. For years they could see it. They gossiped about it behind my back, what a problem case I was becoming and how concerned people should be.

None of them ever advised me to take care of my own heart like you did. I wished so very much in those times I could have had a friend like you. I hope wherever you are, you are safe, and that any scars you carry have had a chance to heal and that you have been able to find peace.

[Bach]