Drawn to Their Hurt
it brings me closer than I'd like to admit
TW: mention of sh and suicidal tendencies
before I begin, I wanted to give a shoutout to
’s if you love me, please don’t kill yourself for inspiring this post’s main idea. you should definitely go check it out if you haven’t already!Sometimes they come to me, eyes vacant or red or closed so tight I almost wonder if they’re trying to shut out the world; I sit there, trying to keep my own gaze steady, as if by staring hard enough I could somehow hold them together. And it’s strange, how much space their absence fills, thickening the air with something sharp-edged, familiar, unwanted.
Like my friend, recounting the morning’s venom dripped from her mother’s tongue; she giggles, laughter hysterical, but her eyes—deep wells of hurt—tell another story. I awkwardly go along with her, despite knowing that her laughter conceals screams.
They’ll talk when they’re ready, they say; or maybe they never will. And I wait, because what else is there? Wait for the words I already know will tear through me, wait for the pain I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to shake, wait for the invisible bruises their sadness leaves.
The images don’t go away. A line on the wrist, faint but there, stark against skin that used to be whole, skin that someone else may someday have held and cherished dearly, and will they see it too? I ask if it hurts, and they shrug, always that shrug, as if it’s nothing. Nothing. But the mark stays in my mind, deepening like ink sinking through paper, like poison threading into blood.
Sometimes I dream in red. Red ribbons, red lines, red marks that wind around my wrists, but they’re not mine, they’re theirs; theirs wrapped around me such that I can’t untangle, and when I wake up, I feel them there. They ask me, why do you care so much? I can’t answer. I don’t even know, except that their pain pulls harder than I’d like, drawing me into some endless, inescapable orbit.
It’s not suffering if we just laugh it off; she insists.
I nod, ignoring the agonizing voice telling me just how wrong I am in that moment.
It’s not suffering if we just laugh it off;
As if laughter can drown out what roils beneath the surface; tempestuous thoughts clawing at my mind; a soundless scream desperate for attention. I nod, lips curled into a smile that feels plastic-coated, because to challenge her would be to expose the truth that so desperately wants to remain hidden.
Why is it so hard for you to see? Do you trust me when I say I’m alright? Her laughter echoes, but all I can hear are screams—her eyes, glimmering with unspoken pain, betray a turmoil that begs to be acknowledged, yet she pulls it back the next second, hides it beneath layers of practiced cheer.
I want to reach out, to pull her from the ledge of her own making, but the ropes of her trust bind me tight, a precarious balance—her fears taunting my conscience, reminding me that to expose her wounds would be to cut deeper, to twist the knife already buried into her heart.
How am I to maintain any normalcy in wake of what is happening to her?
I’ve talked about being the therapist friend, so why bring it up again? This time, it’s a different kind of care, one that finds its way into your own life if you’re not vigilant. It’s terrifying to realize that stepping away might hurt them even more, and their balance depends on you, but at what cost to yourself? You want to be there, really—and each moment apart is gruelling; you wonder if they’re alright, and if you’re doing enough to help them.
It’s a strange, punishing sort of pull—to hold someone steady, knowing that any slight slip-up could send them tumbling downwards. Every scar, every casual mention of self harm stays in the back of your mind, a queasy mix of guilt and helplessness that only grows more and more burdensome with time. When they laugh over what they’ve done; a wry, deflecting smile; it tugs at something tender inside you, as though by knowing, you’re somehow complicit in their suffering too. It’s not that you caused it, but every time they reach out, it settles in; that dutiful need to protect them. But you can’t. You can’t protect them from the factors that are out of your control.
Stepping back feels like treachery, a breach of contract that was never formally announced, yet evident in every late-night text sent with shaking hands; every day they came to school with red puffy eyes, you being the only person to know the true reason why. The thought of leaving chokes you; a vice which presses harder with each moment you even dare consider it—letting go feels as if it would further their suffering. It keeps you forever in that position, for your absence could destroy something vital in them.
At a point you start feeling cruel; do I even care anymore? What if I just want to live my life without having to account for them as well as myself? And you just can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it if all you do is give and get nothing in return. Sure, there will be times where even you’ll need to lean on your friends and vice versa, but never should there be a moment where someone feels that they can never do or say something wrong because the other’s life hangs in the balance—quite literally speaking. (← I hope you don’t take that in the wrong way, of course it’s alright to need more support from your friends, but over a long period of time, that can be extremely mentally damaging to the support-giver).
When does a ripple become a tidal wave?
When does the reason become the blame?
When does a man become a monster?- Just A Man by Jorge Rivera-Herrans
There comes a point when you just have to take a step back. You feel treacherous, especially when you (and other people) notice their decline after you leave them. Every man for themselves, but at what cost? At what point does the guilt not absolutely paralyze you? Because I have too open of a heart to just get over it. No, instead, I’ll spend late nights contemplating my decision, because it’s a ‘betrayal’ I’ll have to sit with for a while before I deem it morally alright, no matter how much I try to rationalize it beforehand.
Despite my efforts, I am very chalant. Every time I see this person around, I can’t help but feel like I should have taken a different approch; talk to them in a different way, tell an adult that would actually listen and do something. But I know the probability of any of these alternate realities is very low.
And so life continues on, no, the world didn’t pause when you sent them that text (sadly). You know they’re there—maybe even miss them sometimes—but for your sake, you’re better off just pretending they don’t exist.
ending message (please read before commenting): while I understand that often the person who is self harming/has suicidal tendencies may have no other way to express their emotions other than just telling their closest friend, this essay is more about my personal experience as someone who has had been friends with these people, and what it’s like to have to support them.
this is so good, thank you for sharing it out here
Your writing is so great!! Can’t believe your posts are so underrated 😭