In first grade, the boy I gravitated toward cut the back of his hand. He came to school with a white bandage wrapped around it. I remember feeling so sad that my chest hurt. He was perched in the homemade treehouse in the playground of the school and I stood at the base of it. Wanting so bad to comfort him and show him how sorry I was that he was hurt, I picked up the broken handle of a plastic spoon, quickly studied it to find the sharpest spot on it, and repeatedly scraped it across the back of my hand. The pink, ashen scratch rose slightly off the back of my little 6-year-old hand. I showed him how I'd hurt myself to make him feel less pain & he just turned away. He didn't understand. No one really did.
Do you?
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