And

[Content Warning: abuse, assault, suicide]

I don’t remember how old I was, three or four or five—does it really matter anyway?—when I was first abused, when I was first assaulted, when I was first hurt. I don’t remember everything that happened, only bits and pieces, and fear—I remember the fear.

I don’t remember how old I was, six or seven or eight when I was molested next.

I don’t remember how old I was, nine or ten or eleven, when I was abused next.

And sometimes, I don’t remember how old I am today.

I remember my age now. 20.

I am 20 years old, and I have yet to be loved by more than one person, by more than one girl, by more than one. One. One.

What a lonely word. One.

I wonder if she even knows how lonely she is. Does she ever sit up alone at night and ask, why? Does she ever hate that she was the first? Does she ever mourn that she will never get more?

Because I do.

Because I

am only

one.

It’s after midnight now, and I sit on my bed—and there are no sheets because I washed them and I’ve been too tired—so tired—to put them back on and it’s easier just to—not and so I just—didn’t and the overhead light is on because my fish stole my lamp and the blinds are bulging out over the windowsill because it’s lined with plants I don’t even water and my clock has disappeared because it unplugged somehow and I got tired of its blank screen and instead of just plugging it back in, I tossed it somewhere and I don’t remember where that is and I don’t really want to because all that clock is is another reminder and I’m so sick of reminders and—

And.

I think I want to die. But I’m not sure. I’m never sure. And sometimes I think I want to die, but I really don’t, and sometimes I think I want to live so bad it makes me want to die and sometimes my brain just pops up with these urges and thoughts and goes, isn’t it a lovely time to die? And sometimes I shout no, and sometimes I whisper, and sometimes I beg and sometimes I try to reason and sometimes I fold under the weight of it all and—

I bought earbuds from CVS, which was a mistake because they suck, but my old ones had only one working bud and I was so sick of it and they were there and so I bought them and now they’re mine and I’ve got them in now and all they’re playing is sad music and all I want to do is cry but instead I’m here and instead I’m writing this and instead—

Instead.

I’ve got my favorite book by my favorite author lying propped up against my knee—which is clothed in my sheep-patterned pajama pants—and I’ve just finished reading the ending again and it’s a beautiful story and it’s all about being remembered and being loved and being seen—every last thing I have longed and longed and longed for and never ever gotten.

And now all I want is to be remembered, to be loved, to be seen.

But I wonder if that will ever happen. And I wonder if I will ever happen. And I wonder if I am ever happening, if I am even really here, if I even exist at all, if—

If.

This isn’t chapter 1. This isn’t a prologue or a forward or a start of anything. This is rambling and this is pain and this is trying.

Sorry.

I’ve lost my age again. I’ve lost the year. I could check, but I wouldn’t believe it anyway. I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing, but my fingers are typing and words are forming and this is another run-on sentence and another hopeless rambling and another endless cycle and another—

Another.

I am one. But I am and—and—and—and— and I am instead—instead—instead—instead—instead— and I am if—if—if—if—if— and I am

another.

And sometimes my brain asks me, isn’t it a lovely time to die?

And sometimes I say yes.