My best friend held me shaking in her arms as I begged her not to call 911, not to tell my parents. “I’ll be okay,” I promised through a trembling voice. To this day I still see shadows of the terrified expression she wore flash across her face whenever I seem anxious. When I slept over her house, she kept the medicine cabinet locked.
My mother had to pick up extra hours to afford my therapy. She came home each night with dark circles growing under her eyes like bruises. The only difference is that bruises eventually go away. When she brought me into work with her one night, all of her clients knew my name.
I met a boy who I shamelessly told all of my problems to. His back was breaking from the weight of my confessions and telling them to him didn’t even make it hurt any less. He’s in my gym class this year, and he only got a score of fourteen on the push up test. I think my heart stopped for a minute when he told the teacher it was because he has a bad back.
The people who love me tell me and when I stay silent they pretend it doesn’t hurt. I know it does because I know hurt. I’ve been hurt and I’ve hurt. Don’t you dare try to tell me I’m not a burden.”