I think trauma is a strange word.
I was probably twelve or thirteen when I first heard it - oh yeah, it's when you get really hurt, right?

Blood and guts everywhere.

Thank goodness that doctors exist.
They can patch you up and make you whole again.

"Incoming trauma! All hands on deck!"

I think it's a strange word because, supposedly, trauma is what happened to me. But that can't be right, can it?

I imagine myself being rolled into a hospital on a stretcher, doctors and nurses taking me from paramedics.

"Eighteen year old female suffering from internal cardiovascular and neuro injuries. Speech and sight is impaired."

I'm okay. What are you talking about? All I did was love two people.

"Injuries are consistent with loving parents that don't love you in return."

Wait, what? No, my parents love me!

My dad likes to drink sometimes but at least he doesn't act unpredictable anymore when I suggest he go to bed.

Well, there was that one time he fell down the stairs. Also the time he peed on me while I was sleeping because he believed my room was the bathroom.

But my mom is okay! She likes to leave a lot and there were those times she had loud *** with strangers in the room next to mine late at night. But she's good, I swear. Even when she had chlamydia and I held her while she cried.

Even when she left and never came back.

"I need a crash cart in here! Patient is bleeding out and her blood pressure is dropping - "

I'm fine, I swear.
All I did was love them.

Wait, hang on!
What about that time my parents argued and my dad tried to choke my mom to death?
I mean...I did run away from the house, crying, to find our neighbor.
I did beg her to call the police.

But that's not trauma, right?
I just wanted them to stop yelling. I just wanted him to let her go before she stopped breathing.

That's love.

"Paddles, please! Charge to three hundred..."
"Clear!"

These doctors really don't know anything.

How do you know it's over?
How do you know the pain is gone?

When seconds blur into minutes and minutes blur into hours
and hours turn into days
and days burn away until it's years later...

How do you know?

I'm inclined to believe it never ends -
simply because it's the same as when I go to sleep
and when I wake up in the morning.

That is, if I wake up at all.

I say this because I know the moon rises and the sun sets -
everyone knows this.

I also know there was a time when the sound of your breathing
helped me fall asleep and the feel of your cold feet on mine helped
me wake up.

These things were true. But the moon also goes away and the sun comes up eventually.
You're not here and pain is what has been left behind.

So, I'll ask again.
How do I know it's over?
How do I know when this pain is gone?

It's been three years since you left,
three years of not hearing you in the kitchen on Sunday mornings,
three years of not seeing you sitting on a bed while you fold clothes,
three years of blowing out candles on a birthday cake without you around.

You left.
I can't make it any simpler than that.

It's been three years since I left, too.
You took something with you - a part of me that I didn't realize I had.
Three years of laying in bed and staring at a wall,
three years of going to therapy and speaking to a woman who can't be you.

You left.
It can't be more complicated than that.

Three years is a long time, did you know?
It's a long time without you,
I still wake up in the morning and think you're here.

Maybe it's because you left in the middle of the night, right before I fell asleep. You left in the most painful way - speaking in my ear, holding me.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Gigi.

You kept gripping my arm while you cried. It hurt and I'm not speaking about my arm.
Something within - that part of me you took.

You ripped it from me and took it with you into the night,
I want it back, please. That part of me was the
Me that loved you.

It was the better part of me,
the Me that wanted to breathe.

I don't want to breathe anymore.

A perfect Mommy, a perfect Daddy
A perfect daughter, a perfect life,
A perfect world to exist in, eclipsed by consummate sight.

She was my sun, a seraphic voice  
bathing me in warm light,
And he was my moon, watchful eyes
protecting me from the darkness of night.

Two halves of my whole heart, their blood flowing through
my spirited veins.
Two halves of my whole mind, their thoughts crashing through  
my synthetic brain.  

Perfection is their sweetest lie, proclaimed by selfish mouths uttering
vain whispers after bedtime.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know we can survive this."
But survival is intangible against an affliction of the soul.  
  
Imperfection is my harshest truth, comprehended by grieving eyes seeing raw memories before sleep.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know you can survive this."
But even a human's profound devotion can be turned away by their Creator,  
just as a pleading child can be deserted by their mother and father.  

And that is the largest betrayal of them all.  

But to remain, to endure against hate's control, against fate, would be an immediate death.  
To try and withstand their sickness and deterioration would be suicide.  

And I have realized that I do not want to die.  

Loss is my most unbearable pain, undeniably clouded by her beautiful smile and his comforting resemblance.

She used to sing her child to sleep, and now, she is singing to her one last time. At the door, he is watching and keeping them both safe.  

They will both leave and never come back, but the memories will remain. The happiness will always be there for recollection.

But for now, it is time to sleep and forget.

She caresses her child's hair and kisses her forehead lovingly, getting up and walking to join him at the doorway.  

The silhouettes of their mournful faces seem like a cryptic dream.  

"Goodnight, Gigi. We love you very much."
"Mom? Dad?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I can live without you. You can leave me. I know I can survive this."
*"We know."