Sympathizing with others

It was on that porch, cigarette in hand, talking about decapitation that I realized that I know nothing. My friend, who I'll refer to as Kaye, was on the verge of tears. We had been out to the bars and were in our usual mode of bullshitting about comic books and pop culture when it got darker.

Kaye showed me a book that I was aware of but hadn't read, "The Walking Dead." The book is about the survivors of a zombie apocalypse. But of the vast cast that had graced the almost 70 issues, only two were still alive at this point.

And as we read, he began to tear up. We went outside and talked about his cousin who had gone to the Middle East. She died there. She was decapitated. Kaye looked down at his arms, covered in self-inflicted scars and began to tell me about how he almost enlisted after Sept. 11, 2001.

I have an interesting blessing in my life. In my 23 years, I've never really been in that much pain. I've been in physical pain. I've broken bones I even spent two weeks in the hospital and almost two months with drainage tubes in my back. But I've never looked at my arms, with a razorblade in hand and felt that dragging the blade across my arms a few times was a great idea of release.

I've never brought pain to release pain. But here I was with Kaye on his porch, trying to be there for him.

I have been with a few girls who have dealt with much darker things in their lives than I think I ever will. I've looked at my own clean arms and realized I'll never know that pain. I've looked into their eyes and known that there is nothing I can say to them.