If sheets could talk,

what would they tell?

Fibers would unlock

nights of pure hell.

If beds could testify,

with every sigh and groan,

what they called a lie,

When she wasn’t alone,

If doors could swear,

The creaks would ring,

secrets they declare

with every swing,

If pillows could expose,

the tears they absorb,

when the night slows,

you’d be abhorred.

If panties could scream

as they’re ripped aside,

torn from the seam,

As she felt inside.

If clocks could voice,

more than just a tick

they’d show his choice,

and it’d make you sick.

If lamps could enlighten,

the things he would do,

it would sure frighten

everyone you knew.

If windows could shield,

the hurt with the pane,

would it still yield,

this he said/she said game

But objects can’t talk

and we are all disputed

about how we dress, act or walk

when the flaw is deep-rooted.

I’m not an object,

I can still speak.

I’m not your suspect,

I’m no longer weak.

I am not at fault,

The system is defective.

Who’d choose assault?

Truth’s not subjective.

Is there a sound,

when a tree hits the ground,

If no one is there to hear it?

Am I insane,

to feel all this pain,

because you choose to ignore it?

why should I hide

the darkness left inside

because you can not remember?

where can I turn

to escape the deep burn

until fire becomes but an ember?

you told me how to feel,

tried to convince me what’s real,

it is you who holds the blame

I will not forget

the smell of your breath

the years of your reign

the feel of your touch

like the tug of a brush

our entirety completely tangled

all your manipulation

all your suffocation

left my soul completely mangled

so again I will ask,

will you unmask

everything you have kept secret?

so maybe one day

I’ll be able to say

that my soul can be reheated

you stood up for all

and answered the call

to fight for all of our freedom

but how can it be

you enslave me

a prisoner of war who is beaten

please hear my plea,

and set me free,

the truth is all that will do

once you have promised

to be nothing but honest,

then I can forgive you

The first emotion I ever remember constantly feeling was loneliness. I don’t even think I knew how to define it yet. I was never the type to have a lot of friends. To be honest, I was never the type to have any, especially when I was a child and less sure of myself. Sometimes, I even wondered if I was real, or just floating through existence with no one actually ever seeing me. I remember it being so hard to connect with the other kids. Maybe what he did to me had something to do with it.

As I lie here, drifting in and out of consciousness, thoughts, memories and emotions flicker through my brain like the tide, ebbing in and out kissing the thirsty sand before washing away and leaving the rest to be evaporated once more. This is not how it was supposed to be, not how it was supposed to end. But then, isn’t that what everyone believes when they are young? The fairy tale life? Slowly, I start to fade, my organs probably shutting down one by one, and my mind wanders. Are these my final thoughts? What is this feeling? Regret? Disappointment? I guess I’m happy to feel anything at all. It has been so long since emotion has graced me with its presence instead of the cold numbness that settled in to live, invading my space, all while charging me to rent my body. Yet, I willingly paid the price, with one piece of my personality at a time, bankrupting my soul. Is this what it took to finally feel something again?

Now wait. It does not need to be like this. Where are those memories? Let’s go back to that. I would rather go out thinking about those then wallow about what could have been. After all, if I had been able to let go of the past, I might not be in this position.

Ah memories, but maybe not the kind that most people may think of in their last moments. For some reason I can’t seem to find the happy ones amidst the waves of bad memories crashing into my head. The earliest memory I can think back to was not of the typical child. It was after a particularly difficult day with my grandmother. Her and I had never really seen eye to eye. Back then, she was “troubled” as my mother labeled it, because god forbid anyone try to explain mental illness to a child. My grandmother always favored my elder brother, Matt, and I always blamed myself, not knowing it was something wrong with her instead. Luckily, Matt stood up for me most of the time, and even took the fall for me if I messed up. He knew his mistakes weren’t punished nearly as severely. Boys will be boys, right? My mother was a young, single mom, working herself through college and nursing school, so we got stuck with my grandmother babysitting. On that day, we were walking home from school, and she called me another terrible name. I remember looking up into the sky and thinking, “Why? Why me? Why leave me to endure this? Is it a test?”

Of course, this was before my mother ever took us to church. Before she married my step dad. Before my grandmother was put on the proper medications. Before my father went to war. Before that war changed the man he was, warping his personality. Before it all came crashing down around me. So why, in that moment, did I believe there was a god who would answer me?

And why would I, now, think I’d receive an answer? For years, when faced with difficult situations, I’d look to the sky and say those words, ask those same questions, and yet not one thing ever changed. Do I even know what I believe anymore? This is probably another thing most people question in the end. I had given up on asking. That was when I realized I needed to start making decisions for myself.

Is that what got me here? Maybe it was the teenage angst, as they call it. Our lack of being able to control our emotions. Maybe there is only so much abuse one person can take? But that can’t be it, can it? Surely there are some who have lived a crueler existence than I have? Maybe that’s why they call it a selfish act? You think of no one but yourself. But someone had to think of me, right?

So many questions, and now, not enough time. Why didn’t these questions ever cross my mind before? Are these the thoughts of every dying person?

Wait. I said it... there it is. Dying. It seemed so peaceful just moments ago. It seemed like such a better alternative to this damaged and seemingly unsalvageable life. So why is my heart beating faster? Is that… Fear?

At least, there is no pain in doing it this way. I would silently slip away into the night. No one would care I was gone. I had thought I was a lost cause. Am I? I don’t even know anymore. I can’t keep up with my thoughts. Am I still breathing? I think my lungs still work.

Ah yes, more memories to distract my questions. They come to reassure me of why I have done this to begin with. Memories of dark rooms and silent tears, of nights hoping the door stayed shut, of praying someone would make it stop. Now I remember, this is why I am here. If I could not control life, why not control death? After years of not controlling what happened with my life, with my body, I wanted to choose how and when I die.

My eyes can still open, I look around the room. Purple curtains, rainbow peace signs, everything in here screams happy. Who was I trying to convince? Why does everything seem brighter, now? Or maybe it was always like that? Maybe depression is like wearing sunglasses everywhere, dulling the colors around, dimming the happy, making it a dreary world. Because who would want to stay in a world like that? It’s an infection that causes you to spiral deeper into it, tricking your brain into causing more pain. Like an evil voice that whispers to you, “Yes, that’s it, now bear that fake smile, ask for no help, come deeper into the darkness”. It’s almost like a child’s nightmare, except, it tricks you into believing life is your nightmare and sleep is an escape. Everything else is dull and terrible, so therefore, it’s okay to let go. Let go and fade off into a place where there are no more dark figures waiting for you when no one else is around.

There was a girl at school my freshman year who killed herself. I didn’t know who she was, I don’t think we had any classes with each other, but I remember how everyone reacted. Those who knew her were rightly upset, but even those who didn’t, acted like they were somehow her best friend. That kinda pissed me off. I wonder what she was going through. If we had met, would we have been able to help each other avoid this? Is there someone else currently struggling? Could I be the one who could help her? Everyone is so wrapped up in themselves at that place it’s difficult to distinguish who people really are or what they are going through. They shove forty to sixty teenagers into a class taught by one adult, who also has five other class periods of just as many teens, how do they expect everyone to be monitored? People slip through the cracks. It’s easy to paint a smile on your face and fool a busy teacher.

It’s always uncomfortable to talk about. Depression. You get looks of pity or desperate fidgeting, as if people suddenly forget what to do with their hands. I tried the whole therapy thing, and honestly, it made everything worse. I would have appointments once or maybe twice a month, if I was lucky. The therapists I saw had so many patients that when I did finally get in to see them, I spent half of the hour trying to remind them of what we said last time, succeeding only in making me feel more invisible. It’s nothing like what you see in movies or television: where you lie on the couch and tell the doctor your issues and you have a break through every session. Maybe my family just couldn’t afford the good doctors.

I look around some more, and see my desk. My pencil is slightly crooked, but I am too tired to fix it. I like it to be lined up with my keyboard. Everything in my room is always left in a specific order, that way I know if anyone has touched my things. My little sister likes to come into my room when I am not home. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, this will probably be her room soon enough.

My eyes are getting heavy. As they shut, my thoughts drift to the green composition notebook on my desk. Inside, my parents will find a handwritten apology, explaining why it came to this. I wish I had taken more time to write it out a little nicer. I’ve always hated that my handwriting is so terrible. I tried so hard to make everything on the outside seem perfect. Thinking about it now, maybe I thought it would eventually make everything on the inside seem perfect.

In the letter I wrote goodbyes to everyone, but also, I wanted to describe what had been happening to me, my whole life. A secret I swore never to tell, to protect the very person who was causing me such turmoil. He would tell me that if I told my mother I would never see him again. So I kept quiet and let it happen. Does that make me complicite?

I hear a door creaking open, like it’s happening all over again, but it sounds distant. I can no longer open my eyes to check. I’m so tired. Is this a hallucination? Someone is shaking me awake. I can feel it, but I just can’t open my eyes. I think they are too late. Can anything be done now? I am finally at peace, as I fade out again.

The thing is, I didn’t even know what was happening to me was wrong. I had no clue that no one else had to fear doors without locks and falling asleep alone, only to eventually be woken up by the door creaking open. When you are that age, that is all you’d ever experienced, you wouldn’t even know its abuse. Eventually, it just seems to be the norm. I wonder what he will think of my letter? Will he ever be allowed to read it? Will he finally get the help he needs? Will anyone even believe it? It’s funny how, on the outside, someone can seem so fun and friendly, but only show their true colors behind closed doors. He used to be one of my favorite people on the planet, but he became something entirely different.

I remember waking up one Tuesday morning and going into the living room to see my mom and grandparents sitting on the couch, crying and watching the news. I didn’t understand what had happened. I just remember being told I wasn’t going to school that day. Later that week, my father sat me down and said some “bad men” had done a terrible thing and he had to go and make it right. He was gone for a year the first time. When he came back, he was different. In front of everyone, he was the same, but behind closed doors, he was broken. He sought his therapy at the bottom of a bottle. A few bottles deep, and he would be crying and telling me I how much he misses my mother, and how much I look just like her.

She was my world. The woman I wanted to be when I grew up. What changed? When did I become so disgusted with myself? He always told me I was so much like my mother. I think that’s when I decided I didn’t want to be her. Just to spite him.

Reality slams into me, cold as ice. I’m so cold. I can open my eyes again. I see doctors everywhere and there are cold, wet towels on my face. Someone is shoving a tube down my throat. I’m scared now. What was I thinking? Somehow, I no longer want to die. When did my mom get here? I thought she was at church? What time is it? She looks scared.

Guilt. Another wave of emotion passes through my body. It’s as if I was warm and safe under my Depressed blanket and someone shoved me into a frozen lake of raw emotion. Everything I haven’t felt washes over me in a frenzy. Am I crying?

What am I doing here? Fear strikes back up again. Do I really want this? I thought it would be easier. All I can think is “I’m sorry, Mom” as she stands there watching in horror. She will blame herself. It’s not her fault. She couldn’t have known. It’s my own fault. How many times did I have a chance to say something? But how do you start a conversation like that? Maybe at first I kept his secret to protect him. But once I started refusing to go on visits with him, I kept it to protect her. After so many years of painful silence, when does it become “too late” to talk about?

Anger. The ignition begins in my gut, and flairs out of my fingertips like sparklers. This is all his fault. I can not let him win. I can not let him do this to someone else. Every thought, every tear, all of it, started with him.

Defiance. Just because it started with him, does not mean it has to end because of him as well. Why should I allow him to continue to hold this power over me? The cycle ends here. The silence ends here.