It’s hard to press charges against someone who saved your life.
Even after all you’ve done I still feel like I owe you thanks. So I’ll say it. Thanks for taking your time to get to know a fifteen-year old suicidal girl. Thank you for defending me against the suggestions (just die!) and insults (pathetic cutter girl), thank you for walking next to me in the corridors while deflecting hateful glares, thank you for giving me something to hold on to in my middle-school hell.
Thanks for a hundred nights of laughing hysterically under the blankets, dismissing the platinum-blonde show-the-edges-of-your-bra-people as if we were any better than them. Thanks for saying “ew” when people asked if we were lesbians. Thanks for the teasing, the accusations, the outright insults, the threats. Thanks for staring at the cuts on my arms and thighs, and thanks for never saying a thing.
It’s important to call abuse by its name, my therapist says. She’s the first person who actually convinced me that this was the case. Abuse. I say it out loud to myself. I’ve been subject to abuse. It sounds pretty, something you could write poetry about. Roses roses
You know what is not pretty?
Being on all fours, vomiting in the crapper because you have not slept for 3 days and your body is starting to revolt against itself. Crying on the streets and begging strangers for help. Thinking someone you trust is actually going to kill you.
Have you ever thought someone is going to kill you? It’s like a bluescreen on a computer. You sort of slide out of your body, go numb. You can’t move. Can’t defend yourself. You merely await the blow that will put a tragic end to your existence. Did I owe this all to you? Was it really your right to torture me, or rather, was our friendship a gift from me, a gift I had to repay in tears, choked cries and nights spent begging for mercy? I wish I could say this brought me something good, that it was all worth it. It fucking wasn’t. Five years have passed and I still wake up with the weight of your knees pressing upon my chest, certain I heard you breathing next to me. And I know I won’t get up and start converting these terrors into words. Trying to transform this fear into art is like trying to make a statue out of sand. Better leave it, ugly and dry. I cherish my uglies.
I know you won’t be reading this. I know that you are long gone, and for that, I am utterly grateful. Still I want you to know that you cross my mind ever so often, and that I hope that you’ve spent at least one night awake wondering exactly where we went wrong.
I hope you think of me and shudder with longing knowing that I’ll never return.