adding injury to insult

sickening injury to unbearable insult, that is. this post is somewhat graphic, and it deals with deep unhappiness. but it’s true, and i love all of you who know too well what i’m talking about.

over the last few years, i’ve given well-intentioned advice (or just tried to be extra-supportive and affirming) to several friends whose emotional pain is so great that they cut, punch, or starve themselves. it’s seemed so clearly to be a twisted device of satan, the father of destruction: his lies rot away the truth of our worth in Christ and our hope of redemption, until the only thing we can do is destroy ourselves, to literally cut and bruise and kill our flesh. i’ve tried to understand. i’ve thought that it’s a suicide attempt, that maybe you hope the next time you pass out on the bathroom floor with your fingers curled around a razor blade, you never wake up. i’ve thought that it’s just misdirected aggression, that you know it’s not ok to hit other people when you’re frustrated, so you slug yourself in the jaw or slam your head against your bedroom wall. i’ve thought that it’s a ploy for attention, because when you say “i haven’t eaten since thursday” people ask what’s wrong and really seem to listen. but i’ve never understood why, why hurting yourself makes it feel better. how can it help to be sad and bleeding, upset and bruised, despairing and hungry? don’t you understand how much God loves you, how He is right there with you bearing you up in your agony? and when you can’t feel Him there (certainly sometimes i can’t), can’t you just journal or talk to somebody or paint or punch a pillow or go for a walk?

last week i picked up a bright red scream by marilee strong, and i am finally starting to understand. when the pain goes so far beyond your comprehension that you begin to doubt your own existence, there is comfort in seeing tangible proof — your skin bleeds, your nerves scream — that you’re alive. when you have been rebuffed from the time you sought nurture as a baby, there is comfort in pain because it is familiar, an unlikely but unwavering friend. when you feel powerless to change the course of your own life and utterly unable to rely on those around you, there is comfort in the discipline it takes to refuse food and do two hundred more crunches.

it is a coping mechanism, not a disease. it is a symptom, not the problem. it is your way of fighting for your life, not a sign of giving up. and to try to get you to stop is as naive and ultimately worthless as glibly prescribing aspirin to a man suffering from tension headaches, without helping him identify and release his anxiety. as stupid as bringing in a dozen fans to clear smoke from a room, instead of first putting out the smoldering fire.

i’m sorry that i haven’t understood. incalculably sorry if anything i’ve said or done has made things worse. i’m only on chapter three of the book and have much, much more to learn. to all of you, even those who won’t ever read this and especially one precious friend (you know who you are): i love you to the moon and back. God loves you unfathomably more. and someday, you will be healed.