when i confessed to my mother the sins i had unleashed onto my own skin,
the zigzag scars crisscrossing my milky white thighs
as we sat on the couch sipping tea
i have many regrets of the things i repressed,
and my answers to the questions she asked

when we sat crying on the couch that first night,
i wish i'd said,
"i'm so depressed that everything takes up too much energy,
even breathing."
instead of,
"i just feel really overwhelmed."
maybe then, she wouldn't have decided that the road to recovery needed only a math tutor
and a 24-hour suicide watch

when she asked me, gently
if we should tell my grandmother
i wish i'd said,
"no, because she's always been part of the problem."
instead of nodding my head yes,
even while my eyes screamed the word no

when she forced me to go to therapy,
and asked me if it was helping
i wish i'd said,
"no. i'm broken so irreparably that a kind hearted, naive woman could not begin to put the pieces back together."
instead of,
"yeah, mom. she's nice."
as i started to dread the thursday afternoons spent sitting on her couch, trying to distract both her and myself
from the manic depressive elephant in the room