Years Pass, But Some Things Never Change


I suppose I could take the memory of you and lock it up in a black box and toss it into the darkness.
I can pretend you never reached through the sharp, rugged exterior of my walls and touched the deepest, warmest, most sincere parts of my soul.
I can move forward without looking back at what we lost so soon after we found it.
I can find someone who will hold my hand and whisper secrets into my ear.
I can find someone who wants to wrap me in silver and diamonds and show me off.
I can do anything I want, really, but I can’t go back.
I can’t have your sweet scent or your soft touch ever again.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to my dear friends, the sweet sensations that made my days feel more worthwhile.
I’m afraid to let go of the only hands that held me when I cried, and opened the door to my future only to back out behind me.
I will never have you again, but I’ll be scarred by your memory and I’ll wear it proudly like all the rest.
I only wish I could leave my mark on you as you have on me.
I can only hope that you’ll think of me from time to time and miss me, like I miss you.
I can only hope one day you realize that you loved me, as I loved you, as I still do
and probably always will.


That Moment, You Know, When Everything Changes


To say there is one single most traumatic experience in a person’s life is a very bold statement to make. To say that you can pin point exactly when you went mad, well, that would be bliss for some. For me? I wish I could say that I wasn’t always mad but I can’t say with any certainty, had this event had not occurred, that I would be any more sane than I am now. Perhaps it was not the moment I lost my marbles. Perhaps that happened long before, but either way, this moment took something from me that I will never get back. It took away whatever I had left of my innocence.

I remember so little else about the time surrounding this particular event, likely because its prominence is so vast in comparison to anything else that happened that day (week, month, year). I wish I could say it was something I hadn’t seen coming, but in some sick way, I knew I was in for a show. I had been dating a boy who was older than me and sicker than me. He was mentally ill in ways I could not imagine at the time. I was damaged; suicidal and self loathing. I was full of resentment towards those who had hurt me over the years. This was something we had in common, the boy and I. We often cursed the world while we rejoiced in each other’s company. This evening was meant to be no exception. I was on my way from school; I took the bus and walked from the bus stop to his house almost everyday.

I could feel something strange in the air. This trip was unusual while remaining familiar. I had done it over a hundred times the past few months. Why did it seem like I was walking in as an unexpected guest? He wasn’t answering the phone and I usually called before I got there so I wouldn’t have to ring the bell. I wanted to avoid chatting with his mother if I could. I waited outside for a few minutes and called another time. When I got his voicemail again, I got a strange feeling in my gut. Something was wrong.

I opened the front door and ran up the stairs. His room was in the attick. When I turned from the stairs to face him in his room, I was met with a sight from a nightmare. Not my own nightmare, of course, I could never think up something this horrible. My boyfriend, the boy I cared so much about that I had forgotten my own needs so I could better serve his, was standing on a chair with a noose around his neck, almost as if he was threatening me. His expression as he carelessly and instantaneously kicked the chair out from under his legs, showed me the extent to which he didn’t acknowledge my feelings.

In an instinctual jerk of my right arm I plunged forward towards a bookshelf containing a “collection” of unusual weapons. Among them: brass knuckles, nun chucks, batons and various switchblades. I reached for the first blade I saw and I hacked through the rope that was tied off only a couple feet in front of my face. When he hit the ground in a loud thump, I ran over to assure he was alright.

He looked up at me with eyes full of resentment and regret. He was displeased by my heroics. He wanted to die and he wanted me to watch him die. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to deserve a fate so awful. To lose a friend, especially someone I cared for so much, would be torture in and of itself. I don’t need to watch it happen to make it hurt even worse. I don’t have to know there was something I could have done to help but didn’t. That is how he wanted me to feel, though. He wanted me to feel responsible. It was somehow my fault that his life was not worth living. It was up to me to make it better.

I was horrified by these revelations. He really thought of me as his only reason for living. This was a grave amount of pressure for someone so suicidal on their own. I never wanted to be that burden for anyone. I never wanted to make life worse, or even less worth living for anyone else. I felt like I was just so defective and horrible and rotten that, not only did I hate myself, but I wasn’t even enough to keep my boyfriend satisfied. He was so unhappy with me, he’d rather be dead.

I instantly withdrew inside of myself. I was unreachable by the outside world. I was probably the most unreachable by him. I could not let him know what I was truly feeling. I couldn’t risk setting him off. I would have felt responsible if he tried to kill himself again and now it was my job to keep him alive. I started seeing him every single day. I had to, there was no other way to make sure he wouldn’t hurt himself. I was also struggling with urges to self-harm and thoughts of suicide, but I had to keep it to myself.

I would put anything aside. I made excuses for his anger over and over again. He always talked about taking me away and getting out of town and making a life together. I didn’t understand why he would ever want to leave Boston. I had a home and that’s where I wanted my life to be. I was only 16 years old at this point, mind you! I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of life, but I assure you I didn’t think I would live much longer, so it didn’t matter all that much to me. I wanted to die in a place where there would be people to mourn me. I was sick and scared. I needed help.

I wasn’t asking for help from anyone. I couldn’t let the world know I was in trouble. I had been in trouble many times before and any advances at getting help only made it worse. Telling the truth, telling an adult, always made it worse. I learned to keep things to myself and suffer in silence; it was the least painful way.

This story doesn’t have much of an ending. The fight to keep my boyfriend happy was very much a lost cause. He was never happy and he would never be happy, at least not with me. He continued to express his frustrations that I was not the saving grace that he intended for me to be. His anger escalated until one day… he snapped.

Pain for Pleasure



As a child, hurting yourself is possibly the worst thing that will happen to you all day. Mommy dresses the ugly scabs with skin-toned band-aids that give the illusion that nothing ever happened; like the skin below is not broken, bleeding, and sore.

As you age, you do it yourself. The cleaning of the scrape, the dressing of the wound. The healing process is in your very own hands.

One day, you’re late for school. You forgot to do your homework, and well, you’re the only one. The girls talk about TV shows that you never watch and boys talk about video games you never play. You listen to your CD and you wait.

You wait for the minute hand to reach the 2. You leave 20 minutes early to take the flag off the pole, fold it properly in a triangle fold and place it in the vice principal’s office. If you finish early, you leave early.

So you walk, as you always do, past the church, past the park, around the corner, up the stairs.

No one is home.


I sit in silence; in darkness. I externalize that which is going on inside my mind.

I feel wrong. I feel broken.

I feel angry. I’m angry at myself for being wrong and broken.

I’m angry at the world for being right and perfect.

I am angry at my parents for not being home, waiting for me.

I am angry at the world for ignoring my pain.

I am hurt.

I feel like someone has reached down my throat and taken hold of my heart.

I speak no words.

I cry no tears.

I let out no screams.

In silence, I bite down in the back of my arm and I clench my jaw with all of my might.

Blood draws and I release my grip.

In a panic I wrap my arm in toilet paper.

A blissful feeling lingers.

I lay motionless in bed until the sun rises again.


Today I am not late, I have not forgotten to do anything.

My incomplete homework assignments are no longer accidents.

Now, they are choices.

My isolation is no longer forced upon me.

Now, it is welcome.

My wounds are no longer dressed.

Now, they are exposed.



Note: The very first time I intentionally hurt myself I did not know what I was doing. It was a natural reaction to an overall feeling of defeat. I instinctively felt as though I should harm my own body in order to alleviate some of the emotional anguish I was feeling. My inclination to escape my suffering state is/was natural and to be expected. The ways in which I suffered were not clear to someone outside of my mind; thus I made it so.