I learned something today about the nuns at my high school that I never knew before. I learned that back in the day, as my bipolar was beginning to steam and I spent more days crying in empty hallways then I spent in class, that there were people in my class, people who cared about me, dare I even say "friends" who were worried about me. I, steeped in my own misery, had no idea, but these people…cared about me. They went to the nuns and said they were worried. That I wouldn't eat. That I wrote "insert razor here" on my wrists. They tried to help me. They went to the authorities and tried to help me.
The nuns never approached me about it. They never did a thing.
I had, truly and with complete honesty, no idea about this until today. And I am humbled. Humbled by the actions of teenage girls who didn't have any clue as to how to deal with a sick friend. Humbled that they went to the people who they were SUPPOSED to depend on for guidance and told them that their friend was royally, acutely messed up.
And of course, I am sad. Sad that the little girl in high school who was going crazy never got the help. The cries went unheard by those who were supposed to be in charge.
Tonight, I hate those nuns with every fiber of my being.
Tonight, I think of the girl crying in the hallway TODAY. I'm an adult now. I work on my mental health issues every moment of every day. I understand that there is something wrong in my brain. That little girl doesn't. All she knows is that she can't stop crying, and she feels totally and utterly alone.
I think about her, and my heart aches.