14
LEARNING TO HEAL A BROKEN HEART
KIRAH HORNE
A miracle.
As far back as I can remember, that was the word my parents used to describe me. And, at least until the second grade, I believed them.
I can remember looking at myself in the mirror as a little girl and, instead of being self-conscious about the raised scar that spreads over most of my chest—from just above my ribs up to my collarbone—I felt lucky.
The scar was a daily reminder of the open-heart surgery I underwent as a five-year-old to correct a rare birth defect—and proof of the miracle that the problem was detected before it was too late. My parents were told that if the doctor hadn’t heard my heart murmur, then by the time I turned twelve I would have literally dropped dead one day in the middle of playing volleyball—or something like it—and no one would have known why.
My parents pointed out that part of the miracle of my situation had to do with the fact that I was a shy kid who didn’t talk a lot. So it was normal at the doctor’s office for me to be quiet—one factor that may have made it easier for him to hear the murmur.
Back then, of course, I didn’t understand the severity of my condition and what wound up being two surgeries in one day. The first operation was to correct the defect, and the second was to remove a needle that had been left in my heart by accident. Like most kids, my focus was on getting out of the hospital as soon as possible and returning to my friends at preschool. My parents never said that I could have died, only that I had come through the ordeal with flying colors.
The feeling I had of being lucky, or special even (but in a good way), stayed with me for the next couple of years. The scar, sometimes reddish and angry-looking, other times a ghostly white, was something I grew used to wearing as a badge of honor. Even if I didn’t show it to many people, my scar was no big deal—just a part of me that I couldn’t think to see as something negative.
But not everyone saw the miracle.
In second grade, after making a new close friend that year, I felt comfortable enough with her to talk about my life-saving surgery at age five. “See?” I said, pointing out one of the top branches of the scar that could be seen over the collar of my shirt.
“Ewwwww!” she shrieked. “Get away from me! You’re sick!”
The power of those words hit me harder than I could measure. They were words, unfortunately, that I, as an eight-year-old, took deeply to heart. Though I had no words yet to describe her treatment of me, this was the first of many times I would be bullied over the next several years.
Looking back, I don’t blame her for what she said. She reacted as many children might. But the hurt was tough to erase. Worse was that, all of a sudden, I became increasingly self-conscious about my scar.
From then on, I didn’t want anyone to see it ever again.
For months, even years, I kept playing the words “You’re sick!” over and over again in my head. The miracle—the one thing that had saved my life—was now a source of shame.
As I got into middle school, kids stopped bullying me about my heart surgery scar and moved on to other things. They’d point out my quirks, mocking me for being gullible and naive—and for seeking refuge in the music of Lady Gaga, a role model and an inspiration to me, whose profound lyrics helped me through some terribly dark times.
Much to my shock, in the eighth grade, my musical taste and choice of role models earned the disdain of my favorite teacher, who didn’t think my views lived up to his standards. When he called me “Freak” in front of the entire class, I could barely breathe.
What? He. Just. Called. Me. A. F-F-F-FREEEEAKKK? Why? Why?
This offhand slam was from an adult, in front of all my peers. This was in a place where I was supposed to feel safe. Now I couldn’t even escape the harsh words of a teacher—no longer my favorite—who had made me feel very much unsafe.
“Freak” cut me to the core, like a sword going through my body, slicing me even more because it came from an adult who we all thought was cool, in front of all my classmates. What will they think of me now? The question burned in my mind, adding fuel to the fire of anxiety already burning inside.
A turbulent period followed.
After that incident, I began having daily panic attacks, most acute when I was in that class. The panic episodes were emotionally draining, and I felt emptier after every single one of them. Soon I began to build up the emotional scar tissue of just not caring about anything. Before long, the attacks began to hurt my grades. Never had I failed a class before, but I ended up with an F in algebra that year and had to retake it as a freshman in high school. Instead of recognizing that I was suffering from an anxiety disorder, I assumed this meant I wasn’t intelligent.
In my downward spiral, I was harder on myself than anyone else could have been, calling myself names inside my head, which stressed me out so much, I was constantly sick. Over the next three years, I lost many close friends. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, but in reality, they had their own problems and didn’t need mine on top of theirs.
The pressure in my chest became constant. The feeling of suffocation was all-consuming. Before I hit rock bottom, I tried to pull myself up. Nothing made me feel better. At one point, I stopped eating. That was probably the lowest point in my life. As much as I wanted to give up, I never did.
Whenever anyone asked, “Hey, are you okay?” I’d shrug and say, “I’m fine!”
Maybe I was good at faking it. Many people who know me pretty well still don’t know how low I sank. My reason for keeping everything inside was that I didn’t want anyone to see me as weak or incapable of pulling myself together. The irony is that by doing so, I denied myself the help I desperately needed.
Today I know that there are lots of resources available for people who struggle with anxiety, depression, and similar issues (or ones that are even worse). Let me just add, dear reader, that if you’re struggling in silence, I encourage you to seek out those resources. Help really is available!
Sadly, in those days I somehow didn’t know that I could even ask for help. Most of the time I was so busy feeling worthless that it felt as though I were drowning. At fourteen, I felt myself crashing into a complete mental breakdown. All I wanted was for it to end.
How could I ever reach out to anyone for help when it seemed the entire world was against me?
Instead of forcing myself to find help, one day in the cafeteria, when I was in the ninth grade and was being bullied, help found me.
That moment of kindness—from someone I barely knew—saved my life.
Minutes earlier, as I walked around looking for a place to sit—feeling the familiar pressure in my heart telling me I could no longer join the group of friends who had decided to cast me out, trying to tune out mean looks and comments that told me I wasn’t welcome—I could not have felt more alone. But lo and behold, the next thing I knew this friendly girl waved me over to where she was sitting, basically taking me in and letting me eat lunch with her.
Suddenly, I didn’t have to be alone anymore. To this day, she and I still eat lunch together. Life, slowly but surely, began to improve.
By the end of my high school sophomore year, there were other friends who’d taken me under their wings, too, who have been there for me ever since. Instead of mocking me for the music and media I love, my friends embrace me for being who I am—quirks and all—and for my love of artists whose lyrics remind me of myself. This included Gaga, of course, but also Sia, Lana Del Rey, and Eminem. Now I can talk about the shows I watch—like Bones, New Girl, and Grey’s Anatomy—whose characters are quirky, like me, as they go through their trials and tribulations and make it through successfully.
Through my own trials, I learned that I’m stronger than I could ever have once believed and that, even with everything I’ve been through, it was possible to make myself whole again. The toughest lesson was learning that I could ask for help when needed and that I shouldn’t be afraid to do so.
A little kindness from someone else goes a long way. So much so that, in turn, I learned that I could take all of this pain that had the power to make me feel so broken and put it toward something more positive. True! When I signed up to volunteer at the local humane society, I was amazed at how much stress could be relieved by taking care of living beings who can’t take care of themselves and need just as much help, if not more, than I do.
No longer do I feel ashamed of my surgery or any parts of my story, no matter how embarrassing or painful. Not that I want to walk around with my scar on my sleeve. But if one person can relate and my talking about it helps them, even a little bit, the pain won’t be in vain.
Yes, words do have power over our lives. To anyone struggling, my words are simple:
Thank you, Kirah, for being honest about your struggles and showing strength in the face of adversity. We cannot let other people define us with their negative words. No matter what anyone says, remember that you are strong, brave, and beautiful. If you or someone you know is experiencing bullying, please reach out to an adult you trust and tell them how you’re feeling. For more resources on bullying, check out STOMP Out Bullying or The Cybersmile Foundation.
You don’t have to suffer alone.
Find a teacher, a friend, or a guardian you can trust and tell them how you feel. Remember, no one will know unless you say something. Most people don’t wish you any harm, and telling them how you feel takes so much of the weight off your shoulders. We are not weak just because our emotions take hold of us sometimes. Strength comes in numbers.
A miracle is not like someone waving a magic wand and making everything in your life perfect. Believe me, I still struggle with letting my scar show, and I do still have panic attacks and bouts of really dark depression. But whenever I feel even the slightest twitch of darkness returning, I try to put my focus on something more positive—maybe by helping someone else going through a hard time. No, nothing is perfect, and I may not be 100 percent all the time yet, but I don’t let the invisible needles left in my heart get the best of me.
The miracle is that I really do have a healthy and loving heart, I have what it takes to overcome the bad days, and I’ve got a million reasons to know I can.
