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LIVED THROUGH THIS
The Power and Purpose of Sharing Our Stories
Silence doesn’t serve us
Okay well, in retrospect, the bottle of pills, the tablets of Tylenol poured out on the yellow formica kitchen table, swallowed slowly, methodically, one by one, was a little misguided. 16. So young, empty, so afraid. I wish I had words back then, that cold January day so long ago when I wanted to die.
Several months later, a friend died by suicide. I wish she had words that awful, balmy day so long ago. In the aftermath of her death, I spoke to my high school, shared my story. I mean, I’m sure most people already knew, given the way high school works, but it didn’t matter, I felt brave and my story seemed worthy. Maybe it could save someone, help someone else searching for words. Please help me.
I’m not sure if I’d call the stomachaches misguided, I mean, they kept me home watching Love American Style and General Hospital, but then too, I wish I had words. I’m scared. Lonely. I feel inadequate. When I was young, in the middle of the night, I didn’t crawl into my parents’ bed, snuggle, ask them to hold me when I felt afraid. I took my blanket and pillow and lied on the floor below my mom’s side of the bed. My little body, still boyish and limber, half underneath the heavy mattress and metal frame, half out. I wish I had…
