NUMBER THREE

My favourite number! I feel like I'm shouting these numbers, maybe I should record it…next assignment perhaps.

When I was suffering depression, around the time of the September 11 bombings, well that year anyways, and I was taken to visit my god parents. I love them both so much its not funny, their awesome. But at the time of this I was 13 and I had been diagnosed as self mutilative. I had been picked on in school and everyone asked “how did you get that sore on your head?” and I got tired of saying “well…it was a mozzie bite, but then I picked it and picked it and picked it…” or the like. A mozzie is a mosquito for reference . So this one day when I was asked by my godmother how I got the sore on my forehead I replied “I was hit by a comet” and she got confused and asked again and I replied with the same thing, and she realized what I said and asked me again. I said something stupid again, and she was hurt. I wrote a letter to her last year, and we made up. I started it like so “If I've spelt you're name wrong please forgive me, I can't think of many other likely ways to spell it. A while ago -I've lost count of the years- dad told me I really hurt you when I wouldn’t tell you the truth about the ‘mark’ on my forehead and you didn’t want to see me because I was mean to you. Well I can understand that, I wouldn’t want to be around a mean little girl either, but it's time I told you what it was, and it sure wasn’t from a comet.”

This experience brought me guilt for like ever, but I was afraid to open up until early last year. She is great, still the same and always loving. It still hurts to think about it, even though she’s forgiven me…but it was really hard to open up. That sore was there because I couldn’t deal with life and it was my cry for help. It showed my pain. The blood running down my face from it was metaphoric to the fact that I was bleeding and hurting inside. I was wounded, and no one took me seriously…