She grabbed the shovel. The first few hits merely nicked the outer shell. Before she even realized what she was doing, she started making her hole, and her hands began to blister, unnoticeable to the world for she bore her pain and self infliction well. Such continued until she was knee-deep in her suffering and finally allowed the dirt to slip. However, it was even too late for her closest friend to pull her back out with the rope of information she supplied her parents. As much as her parent wanted and were able to disbelieve the despair and depression their daughter felt, we, the party of three dragged into this story of confusion, were unable to deny that the hole in her heart was growing larger. In fact, confusion seemed to be the staple upon which we were living, and as she tried to make us tighten the grip on the dirt she hoped we’d understand, understanding slipped through our fingers. I believe it slipped through her fingers, too.

Soon her (and my) closest friend, my sister, and I started digging, hoping to reach her and drag her back to light and life, but unlike her, I could not successfully hide my blisters, for one sole reason… I didn’t want to. she dug deeper into her lies to the point where, while she admitted she had been untruthful about the purpose of her ordeal, she found herself too deep to reveal, or even herself, find the truth. It never occurred to her that she was still holding the shovel, that she could dig her way back out with no more torment than it had taken to dig herself in.

While my burdens were inward at having to hold her casket of ashes and dirt in my heart, hers were also outward as she let the shovel hit her side in bursts of pain to distract her from that inside the heart none of us could find. she dug deeper in lies, we in confusion, and myself in sadness for her. Soon the walls she had created surrounded her, and she attempted to convince us and herself that all she then wanted was her own burial. As alien and foreign as she had become from her inner world, none of us wanted her absence of life, so we straggled on, trying to reach her no matter the personal price. My price? Depression from keeping her torturous secrets, distraction from them racing through my heart and head, and sacrifice of time to attempt to sift through the dirt and confusion she had unknowingly buried us in. My sister and true friend sacrificed nothing less, if anything the more which I could not supply.

Her digging continued, and as she pushed through the layers of life, she surrounded us with layers of lies and, to try to replace the confusion, hate. I stopped digging. I had pushed on through despair, distraction, insults, and worthlessness, but I would not continue trying to rescue her as she dug a grace for her friendship with my friend and inadvertently one for me. Eventually she also swung with the shovel at us, more as a threat than anything else, but unlike hers, my eyes were clear of dirt and could see the hatred and confusion she felt. I would not suffer her burial for her. I would not help her lift the shovel. All I knew in my stubbornness and my growing contempt was that I would block any blow thrown at the best friend she had turned away. It seemed that the best way to lose her was to try to save her.

I know that accepting the defeat she has already decided upon is not the answer, but at this point, I don’t know if it’s worth it to keep trying to save her. She still needs a savior, but she won’t let it be God, or me and my sister, and certainly won’t let it be who she considers to be her former best friend. She also is not willing to put forward the effort to be one herself… so who is her savior?