Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

My teenage angst did not have a body count. Unlike Veronica (and now my MSN name), my teenage angst did not have a body count. My life was littered with the would-be suicides I spent most waking hours with, girls on self-destruct who painted their eyes with glitter. Pretty gothic warpaint that never quite plastered over the cracks underneath and drew attention to them instead. I had, I will admit, my fare share of moping around in black, reading Sylvia and looking with morbid curiosity at the medicine cabinets. But I never felt that same urge to die, never wanted to *stope* feeling. The cold, hard, numb feeling at the pit of my stomach drew me to the sharp points of scissors, to needles scraped across my arms. That now is the dim and distant past and, mostly only a few scars still linger. But I am drawn to that pain, the pain of other people, like a moth to a flame. It scalds and consumes even if I'm only the bystander. I can stand there and warm my hands when I pull people away from the fire for the rest of my life and never feel the temptation to self-immolate. Does this make me a good or a bad candidate for what I'm increasingly considering - some form of counselling training? Or does the fact that I've been there and seen that, an emotional tourist/voyeur allow me to feel at least a little empathy for the lost souls who wander to my door even before I considered this? ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower