For the last four years, at least, I have been corresponding with a beautiful, talented, hilarious young lady from England. For me, this is a big deal, because I can’t even keep in contact with someone who lives the next street over, let alone someone who lives on a different continent. But for some reason, I have managed to stay in contact with this girl, exchanging emails, Facebook messages, whatever, almost every day for over four years. For privacy reasons, I’m going to give her the name “Belle”.
I meet Belle through my ex-boyfriend on AllPoetry.com. No, my ex was a real person, but he was friends with her on this website, so I was too. I loved Belle immediately, but then, I am always one to trust sooner than I ought. Her poetry was always full of passion, which is how poetry should be. She was a quirky, interesting individual with a bad home life (her mother is unstable, and her parents kept getting divorced and remarried, one moving back and forth from South Africa to England) who was afraid of geese and loved to run.
I can’t, for the life of me, figure out where the downhill run started. Only about a year ago, everything was still wonderful and normal. She had a friend die… maybe it was there that the problems began. She met her fiance shortly after that incident, and everything seemed okay, still. But then the next thing I know, she is complaining about how she can’t even finish a yogurt because it makes her feel fat, and the doctors are putting her on special diets, and her mum is force-feeding her. Then she goes to University, and suddenly she pretends to be taking a lot of showers, just so the sound masks her purging.
A few weeks ago, she was eating better. I thought maybe, after working for so many months, she had conquered bulimia. She was running again, and was living in a new flat, and seemed to be generally enjoying life.
About a week ago, I get a simple three-sentence email. It basically said that she hadn’t had time to write because she was in the hospital, but she would soon. Cryptic much? I waited and worried.
This morning, I got another email. Belle thoroughly believed (and still believes) that her skin isn’t her own, and was trying to scratch it off. But it hurt, so she took a painkiller. And another. And eventually eleven, and nearly killed herself. And here I am, knowing that she’s in the hospital, or was, for delusion-driven attempted suicide… a thousand or so miles away with no way to get there… and I’m at a loss.
What do you say to something like that? How do you make it better? How can you save a life, and convince the owner it’s worth saving?
Writers live so often in their imaginations that they become absorbed in their fabricated worlds. Then reality hits, like a brick to the head. And I stand here, helpless.