Hot Water

I was mercilessly bullied in my early childhood. When I finally had the opportunity to go to a new school in 7th grade, I'd had enough and consciously decided to do anything I could to be popular. I became a bully. There is no being on earth capable of inducing as much emotional pain as a 14-year-old girl.

I clearly remember one particular target of my absolute cruelty. Her name was Rachel. She came to me one day, asking me to please lay off her. She was heartbroken; her request was quiet and desperate. She explained that my friends and I were causing her so much pain she wanted to die. In her words, she had tried to commit suicide that morning by turning the water in the shower to "all the way hot." Disgustingly, my first thought was, "that is the dumbest way to kill yourself that I have ever heard. That isn't how people die." I wonder if I said that out loud? I cant remember. I hope not. I probably did. There is no being on earth capable of inducing emotional pain like a 14-year-old girl.

I think about that moment on occasion, and I am always consumed with guilt. What triggered the memory today was my own sadness for completely un-bully-related reasons. I took a shower to clear my head, find my center. The water wasn't hot enough; it wouldn't melt the sadness feeling away. I turned the water hotter. Then hotter. The scalding water marked my back, and the billows of steam blocked the view of the shower curtain and shampoo bottles. The water never was hot enough. It wasn't enough to melt the sadness, it wasn't hot enough to make me feel safe, and it wasn't enough to calm my anxious heart.

Rachel didn't want to die that day in middle school; she wanted to feel warm and safe. Neither of us could have possibly articulated that then but I can now, so here I am, saying it.