I remember the first time she was put in jail when I was a teenager.
I was in the psyche hospital twenty minutes out of town,
an out patient facility,
trying my hardest to stop my mind from telling me to rip my skin open.
my dad picked me up that day dressed in his court clothes,
and my mom wasn't with him.
I was expecting that the entire day of course,
but I still broke down when we got into the truck.
my dad and brother work third shift,
and when I started painting a bottle red and slicing it up with a knife,
he called into to work to stay with me for the night.
it was more of his fear of me slicing my skin open instead of the red bottle, than him just keeping me company.
the second time she was put in jail,
I don't even remember it from all the pills I took to numb myself.
I don't remember why she was there,
and I don't remember how the nights felt without her.
today when the cop called me,
I was almost certain she finally crashed her car or took too many pills.
the cop told me she was arrested,
and asked to speak to my father.
the last few weeks between me and her were not good,
you'd think I was being abused if I told you the things she said to me and vice versa,
and who knows,
maybe I was.
now she's going to be in jail for who knows how long,
and the guilt and the regret weighing on my shoulders,
gripping my heart so tight it's hard to breathe,
makes me wish I could hurt myself again,
but what kind of person would I be if I hurt myself when I told you not to?