𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨

No, I'm not afraid
to disappear,
the billboard said,
"The end is near."
-Phoebe Bridgers

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

There's a hole in my chest, bigger than it's ever been. It leaks out, with each step. Blood trails along Pittman's main corridor. Frankie's at my side, our bags slung over our shoulders. But Tenny isn't there. I tell myself he will be back with us soon.

I drop my bag onto my desk, and Frankie collapses on her bed. "I feel refreshed after that weekend," she says, and I wish I could say the same. "I think I've made my mind up about Khalil."

"Yeah?" I say, and I drop to my desk chair.

She nods. "I don't think I'm ready for a relationship," she admits. "Not with him, not with anyone...He might be a good guy, but it's never going to work if I keep looking for cracks."

I lean onto my elbow. I can sort of hear Tenny in her words, saying he'll fix himself first. Maybe Frankie has some work to do, too. Maybe we all do. And for some reason, it makes more sense to me coming from her mouth. I nod.

"I think that's a good idea, Frank."

She sits up, frowns, stares at her feet dangling over the edge of her bed. "I guess I should go talk to him, then," she says. "Better to get it over with." And she hops to the floor, shutting the door behind her when she leaves.

I stare at my desk. At a stack of books scattered across the top shelf, ones I meant to read but couldn't ever find the time. I snag one. I crack it open. And I try to ignore the blood seeping into the pages.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

March 2017,

The first time I met Emily, I was in a dark place.

I wanted to go to college. I wanted to make Aunt Kali proud. I wanted to be sober, and smart, and new. But instead, I became my mother. I became someone who had no control over their addiction. Who had no control over their own self. I became someone I hated.

Emily told me those were only thoughts.

She told me that I was in control, and I didn't have to continue drowning in that sea of negative thought and self-doubt. She told me if I worked really hard that, one day, I might even start to believe she was right.

I really wanted to believe she was right.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I sit on the leather sofa inside Emily's office. My journal is on her lap. There are little colorful post-it notes sticking out between the pages. My stomach turns, realizing she has scoured over every sentence I had wrote.

She has dissected every moment of my entire life.

I cross my arms over my chest, as if I'm sat in front of her completely naked. She only smiles at me softly. Her legs cross at her ankles. "You didn't write about what happened," she says, and I frown.

Because I did write about what happened. That's all I wrote about. Over and over, every mistake I have ever made. I straighten my chin. "Yes, I did."

She frowns. "No, you mentioned his name a few times. You wrote about a fight you had with him at a hospital, one at your home in Kentucky...but you never wrote about the incident."

My chest tightens; my limbs feel all jittery. Because I realize she isn't talking about Tenny—she's talking about Jimmy. The time I yelled at him for poisoning my mother with those chemicals, the time he grabbed my hair in Kentucky...I felt my breaths quicken.

"You wrote about how it made you feel," she continues. "You wrote of the sound of his voice, and the panic it brought you, but you didn't write about what happened."

I screw my eyes shut. Try to push away that room in Kentucky. The smell of chemicals and cheap beer in that double-wide trailer. The gravel in his voice. The callouses on his hands. The room starts spinning.

"But Violet, I think that's alright," Emily says, and I open my eyes. I focus on the rise and fall of my chest, I hear Tenny counting to seven. "The details, of what happened to you in Kentucky, they never mattered—not to me, and I don't think they matter to you, either."

The room whirs to a stand-still. I focus on the scent of pine. On Emily's dark eyes and thin lips. On her words, as she talks.

"What you wrote about, this feels like your journey to find healing," she says. "And I think all that really matters is that you found you way here, in this office, at college, sober." She thumbs through the pages of my journal. "You wrote about middle school and fighting with friends, you wrote about high school and reckless decisions. You wrote about love and loss, and falling into old patterns."

And then she closes it. Emily smiles at me. "But think about what you've told me lately. You've found a good friend, in Frankie. You've found new relationships. You moved through a major roadblock with physical intimacy. Your sobriety was challenged, but you didn't fall apart—not all the way...Violet you've gone through a lot this year; you've grown so much from where you first started, and I couldn't be more proud of you."

I shake my head. She shouldn't be proud of me; this year was a disaster, in so many ways, but she stops me.

"Violet, you're still here," she says. "You came back to this office, week after week. You kept working, you kept writing. And you're here, healing, because you've finally chosen to show up for yourself. That's more than enough to be proud of."

I stare at my shoes. I listen to the soft hum of the box fans. I remember that first day we met, and how lost I felt. I remember her telling me one day I would believe the things she said to me. I want to believe her now.

"What happened to you was wrong," she says. "But you know that. You didn't need to write it down or say it out loud to know that. What Jimmy did to you—that was wrong, and it was never your fault."

That burning sensation comes back to my throat. The floor starts to blur into my shoes.

"You deserved to have someone tell you that, then," Emily says to me. "You deserved to have a mother to stand up for you; you deserved to have someone to protect you." She leans forward, and I force my eyes onto hers.

"But these past eight months, Violet, you became that person for yourself. You've had to make that choice, every single day, to fight for yourself—and maybe that isn't fair, but you do it anyway. Because no one else can do it for you."

And I know what she's going to say. Because ever since I first met Emily, she's told me the same thing, over and over again, pleading for me to hear her.

"What happened to you—that trauma that you have to bear—it was never your fault, but healing from it, that is your responsibility," she says. "You owe that much to yourself. But I think you know that."

And now I do. I hear her when she speaks. I believe the words she says.

None of it was ever my fault.

...

Author's Note:

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