As I look over my first year of high school,
all I can remember
is this
BURNING
sadness.
It throbs in my chest, robbing my lungs of air and causing my mind to slide in a downward spiral.

I remember the yelling.
I remember the panic.
I remember the sorrow coursing through my veins, inching between my bones until it filled every last inch of me.

I remember the cuts, most of all.

But I also remember my friends.

I remember Navleen.
I remember Eunice.
I remember Damien and Kylee
I remember Kayleigh and Humera.

I remember the jokes, the silly conversations, the laughter.

I remember the stupidity that is the teenager's mind.

It's one of our last shots at being kids.

We want to take it.

But...

You
Won't
Let
Us...

Study Study Study
Grades Grades Grades
That's all that seems to matter anymore
Not our happiness
Not our safety
Not even our health
Sure
I look okay
But
Were you paying attention?
Do you even remember, Dad?
Do you remember asking me why I was crying
Do you remember how I couldn't answer?
Do you remember, grandma?
Do you remember when you found a knife in my room?
I was ten
Do you remember, Mother?
Do you remember that lost and glassy look in my eyes?
Do you remember when I was sick
And I told you I hadn't eaten nearly all week?
Do you remember what you said?
"At least you'll lose weight."
I was nine
Do you remember how distraught I was
When had I revealed my first failed class?
Do you remember the tears?
The yelling?
The slamming door?
Perhaps the cold dinner left in my seat?
Do you ever notice how
when I'm asked how I am
That I always pause
I pause and shrug
Because how would I know?
That wasn't on the study guide.

The girl laughed, rubbing red stained hands and arms off in the sink.
"Art Class, amirite?"
The boy sits with his friend group, empty tray in hand. They all tell jokes in between bites of food.
A girl pops in another pill, giving a small smile to her friend as she assured her she just had a headache.
A boy pulls out a roll of gauze from his backpack before handing a piece to the girl who burnt her finger.
"Just in case!" He reassured his friend before he rushed to the bathroom, backpack in hand.


Do we seem okay?

Look a little closer.

Do we really?

It's the color of her hair when I first meet her
The color of her cheeks when she laughs herself breathless
The color that beats harder in my chest when her similar shaded lips meet my own
The color of her dress on our first date
It's the color that stains my cheek after every evening with each other
The color of my dress when I walk down the aisle
The color I see when I look into her eyes and see our future painted out in front of us
But
It's also the color I see dripping from her words as a bottle of whiskey swings from her hand
Its the color that paints the skin under her drunken eyes
The color that glazes her eyes when she swings at me
Its the color that drips from my cheek and her ring
The color that paints my vision as I feel the words pour from my mouth like lava
The color that I hear when she slams the door
Its the color that drains away when she doesn't return

DEPRESSION
_________________­_
What is...

Depression?

...

It isn't 'being sad sometimes' or 'being sad all the time.'

It's being numb all the time.

It's knowing you should like doing things, that you should, theoretically, be happy.

But you don't, and you aren't.

It's having no energy to get out of bed, sometimes not even for food.

It's sometimes being unable to satiate the hunger, but sometimes not being hungry at all.

It's lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling knowing you have homework due, but being physically unable to get up to do it.

It's not really caring if you die.

It's knowing if you could die without it being your fault, you'd take it in a heartbeat.

It's being so exhausted in a way that can't be fixed with sleep.

Sometimes it's hiding behind laughter and jokes, behind an uncaring attitude and a blinding grin.

Sometimes it's hiding behind a laugh, a fake smile, and an "I'm fine."

Sometimes it's hiding behind hot white rage, behind bruised arms and split knuckles.

Sometimes, it's not even hiding.

Sometimes it's empty eyes with dark bruised bags and long sleeves with no care for how hot it is.

Sometimes it's eating less and less and less until the only thing you're eating is air and tears, and despite how thin you may get-

It's not enough

It won't be enough

It'll never be enough

Just

Like

You

ANXIETY
__________________­
What is...

Anxiety?

...

Anxiety isn't just feeling nervous before public speaking.

It isn't that feeling you get right before a test.

It's feeling like the world is watching you, lurking around the corner and waiting to scream at you for one mistake.

It's shaking hands and bouncing legs and bitten-through-nails digging through your skin as you drag them up and down your arms.

Up. Down.

Up. Down.

U p. D o w n.

It's thinking that your life is over because you got a low grade on a quiz in Math class.

It's not being able to breathe, despite having all the air you need in your lungs.

It's throwing up before and after school presentations, if you even manage to get through it.

It's tight, close-lipped smiles to a stranger you've never met because you're worried about what they'll think of the words that spill through your lips, no matter if you'll likely never meet again.

Sometimes it's being unable to stomach your food because 'what if I throw up in front of everybody?'

Sometimes it's being unable to leave the house because 'what if the grocery store gets shot up while I'm there?'

Sometimes it's not wearing the clothes you like because 'what if they make fun of me and then no one will be my friend and then when I graduate everyone will forget about me and I'll die sad and alone with no one to share anything with because I wore

This

Specific

Shirt.'

Sometimes it's just barely-there-adrenaline thrumming under your skin that builds up until you spiral into an anxiety attack.

It's choking on the air you're trying to drag through your lungs as you spiral slowly down, down, down.

It's always wondering,

What if

What if

W h a t  i f

It's wishing you could go silent forever so no one could hear the shrill scream desperately trying to escape from your soul, mind, and body.

It's knowing something will go wrong.

It always does.

Doesn't it?

...

You don't know.

You're never sure.

Never certain.

Always questioning.

Always fearful.

Always thinking,

What if.

What if.

W h a t  I f ?