Did she hide because she was scared?

What was she scared of?

Did she even know?

Was she jealous?

Of what?

What do I have that she doesn’t?

 

Questions I asked myself about people who ran away from me.

And these are the contemplations in chronological order of things that happened that are important. Though, definitely not everything – it’s something. And maybe it’s enough

Enough to show you I’m ready.

 

I was twelve when a boy decided my body was his.

I was thirteen when he thrusted his hand down my pants and I said no.

Perhaps he was just curious?

No. He still treats girls like nothing but a slab of meat.

 

I was thirteen when I found out I would be moving schools.

I was thirteen when I started drawing during lunch rather than eating.

I was thirteen the first time I slashed scissors at my forearm.

I don’t remember it being painful, but it was enough to make me wonder

What else could I inflict upon myself?

Soon the pain was more purposeful,

Each scrape much more permanent.

I was thirteen when I had my first consensual contact with a boy.

 

I was fourteen when I began to starve.

I was fourteen when green tea was breakfast

and carrots were for lunch

and god forbid I eat dinner.

I convinced myself I was allergic to gluten.

My stomach was empty, but I was full of words 

I was beginning to swallow rather than say.

I was fourteen when I realized that I liked girls too.

 

I was almost fifteen when I started to smoke.

The walls of my stomach would grab and reach out to be touched

But their neighbor my lungs were the only things I would fill.

I was almost fifteen when I began to purge.

Sometimes carcinogens and blood were just like I thought I was –

Not enough.

My body screamed at me for more and when I gave that to it,

It was instant regret and over the toilet or shower drain I bent

Humming in between hurls in the same way people whistle when trying to seem nonchalant.

 

I was fifteen when I tried to kill myself for the first time.

Sometimes mutilation in the school bathroom wasn’t enough –

But maybe five bottles of cough syrup and any other pills I had in my bag were.

And I failed, but did I?

My hunger left my body but so did something else.

And I was high off my ass on the bus stop bench just outside of the classrooms.

People said I slurred about cats and dying.

 

And this is because of David.

David who made me throw up what I could of the medicine I swallowed.

David who took advantage of the fact that I was inebriated.

Who blamed me for the kiss he gave me.

I guess he thought I owed him something for his

Astounding

Act of 

Heroism.

And it wasn’t enough that he knew I couldn’t speak.

And it wasn’t enough when I eventually tried to die a few more times.

And it wasn’t enough that my therapist told me that boys would be the biggest obstacle in the way of my recovery.

And it wasn’t enough when I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.

 

He said he’d jump.

He took my phone.

He kept me in place physically without touching me.

He had more power than I’d ever known.

And I lied to get away.

And I lied after it was over because it wasn’t.

Not even the beginning.

 

At fifteen I was told I could either be institutionalized or under constant watch by my parents and I chose the latter.

No phone. No computer.

Just an iPod with no internet and songs downloaded from YouTube.

I slept in my parents’ bed and my dad slept in mine.

Mom going to the post office? Me too.

Showering pooping peeing eating. She was there and I was three again.

 

And when I got out I was just as bad but quieter from my mouth.

More clouded in the head, and louder on paper.

And I LIED TO MYSELF so hard that I forgot about reality.

When would I stop drinking? Cutting? Bruising? Starving? Puking?

Would I stop?

It didn’t feel real until he came along.

 

And even now, looking back –

I was still drunk and smoking in front of him.

But he stayed.

At sixteen, he watched me grow. He watered me and put me out in the sun.

And suddenly,

I was progressing.

And each time I thought I was ready, I wasn’t and there was more.

 

At seventeen, we made a year. He was a senior and made a path for me.

I got more shit together and fucked up some other odd times.

And he stayed. And I love him.

 

I am almost eighteen. And I’m here and fighting.

Today he is nineteen. And he’s staying.

Soon we will make two years together.

I feel ready with him. I am ready for more progress.

I am ready to apply the world as an ointment to the leftover empty pockets

That I won’t notice until there’s something that doesn’t fit right in there.

But he will notice.

And he loves me.

And I’m enough.

 

 At eighteen, I will still have hope.

Maybe that’s enough too.

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