TW: Suicide, Anxiety, Depression Janelle, the valley is not your home. You will not grow old here. You come here to mourn; you’ll leave when you are ready. This place is not a part of you. You can begin the healing process here. This place will teach you how to grieve, it will teach you what to say when someone else is hurting, but it is not long term. It is not your destination. It is not the finish line for you. You deserve a better view. Your story does not end here; there are so many more pages waiting to be written, there will be more chapters, this is only one chapter, you have an entire series ahead of you. This is not a place to make yourself comfortable. I know, it feels familiar. You reach its lowest point, you recognize the scenery, but that does not mean you must live there. That does not make a home. You do not have a foundation here. You will not build yourself walls here; that would only keep your loved ones from reaching you. They are here for you, they have come to visit, they want you to come home. Do not settle down here. Let them lead you out. They leave a trail of hope for you to follow. It looks like memories, you remember standing front row as your favorite band plays your favorite song off your favorite album, the first time you went to the movies by yourself, Mad Max: Fury Road in the crappy Lexington Park theater, the extra gooey chocolate brownies Shari makes, the day you met Bethany, Ciera lying next to you in the street in the pouring rain, balloons on your birthday, the cheesecake from New York your family sends you every year, God listening to you when you are angry, especially when you are angry, His patience with you, His unconditional love for you, the way He still calls you his daughter no matter how many times you’ve run away, palm trees and good books, and sunflowers, and apple juice, and road trips to Ohio, Norfolk, Pittsburgh, New York, Delaware, Chicago, and Michigan, teaching 5-year-old Adisu how to say spoon, and cupcake and crayon in English, reading your poetry to strangers in Tina’s living room, the Pacific Ocean, The Iron Giant, forts in the Walker’s backyard, the “I love me” tattoo on the back of your neck, the way your mother pronounces breakfast, your students’ never-ending love for play-dough, how you and Kate looked jumping into the bay in February in matching dolphin t-shirts, Goonies never say die! the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling you bought for yourself when you were 19, your scars finally healing, bon fires and inside jokes, hours of Kidz Bop with Jenna, and how thankful you are she’s moved on to Bruno Mars, holiday themed socks, roller coasters, sunsets, the chubby hula girl sitting on the dashboard of your car, polaroid pictures new and old, Relient K’s Christmas album, listening to Dan sing along to the radio at the top of his lungs, a 7-mile hike around the lake, thinking about what it really means to be at peace, you remember that all these things make panic attacks, and ex-best friends, screwing up all those second chances, bad days, bad haircuts, bad winters, punishing yourself, dropping out of college, being afraid of so many things and that starting so early, the 6th time you failed your driver’s test, watching the children you love suffer, all the judgement, the suicide attempt, the broken promises, the stage fright, the lies, the nightmares, your dad being sent to jail, the fact that he deserved that, being diagnosed as Bi-polar, all the things you regret, that you wish you could change, that frustrate you, embarrass you, that scare you bearable. All these things are bearable now that you remember the rest of your story. These things belong here; you do not. You need to remember that. There is so much more out there. You cannot stay here. There is so much more good in your life than bad. I know the disappointing things, the terrifying things, the painful things take center stage so often. Sometimes they send you here, but the hopeful things, the things that make you laugh, the memories you cherish, the God that never gives up on you, the things that make this place all worth it, they are calling you home.

TW: Suicide I write, I write, I write. I revised the note so many times because it had to be just right. It’s rare that I’m left at such a loss for words, but I can’t think of the right way to say this. I can’t bear to have my last words be, “I’m sorry.” I can’t bear to have my story summarized with an apology, a tragic ending in my own handwriting. I have so much left to say. There’s no good in this goodbye. So, I finish my lesson plan, I text my mom back, I sign the perfect birthday card for my best friend. I write this poem instead.

I carry travel sized issues wherever I go. Fear of abandonment pairs nicely with a hesitation to trust. They are kept beneath both a layer of codependency and intimacy anxiety, a constant contradiction, wrinkled and disheveled, I wear them every day. I am beginning to unpack my baggage on these pages. Poetry lessens the load. Handle with care was scrawled across my skin in thick black letters on the day that I was born, but I was still drawn to the people who were careless with me. I chose them over the ones who tried to wrap their arms around me so that I would not break. I don’t want to be damaged goods. I want to send all this luggage away, but I fear the cost of shipping is too great. It all feels like too much. I ask myself what if the weight is too much. I ask this too much. I know I can’t carry it all on my own. So, I’m gonna start letting some of it go. I am using poems. I write it out as much as I can. I write as much as I can. When the burden is light enough I will keep moving. I will not pick up any of my baggage once I set it down. I will not look for it in lost and found because I have found that I have more than I have lost. Building trust is painful for me but I brace myself. I lean in to it. I try again and again. It’s getting easier. I am adapting to the pain. It is worth it. I fear people will never love me enough to stay. So, I either keep my distance, afraid to not be enough, afraid to be too much, or I try begging to be needed, demanding too much from myself, desperate to earn love, pleading for it to be permanent. I’m learning to stay somewhere in between; an open door but a security guard always on duty. I will not beg anyone to come in and stay anymore. I can’t leave my issues behind but I am strong enough to carry them and with every collection of poems my shoulders find relief.

TW: Abuse 1. Denial looks like my lips being tightly sewn shut. I cannot speak my truth. My heart doesn’t mean to be cruel it’s just trying to protect itself. It takes the thread and pulls it tightly until it hurts so much I forget what I was trying to say. My heart says I’m ready now. It snips the thread keeping my voice locked away, but when asked about my pain I reply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 2. Anger loves the word hate. It tastes sweet in my mouth but it burns on the way down. It says, “I hate what you’ve done. I hate that I love you. I hate myself for all of this. I hate that we can’t go back. I hate that I have to keep going.” 3. For me, bargaining sounds like, “I’ll let it go, I can let go. I can pretend just please don’t leave. I’ll do anything.” 4. Depression like that scratchy sweater I’ve had for 20 years, ugly and worn out. I slide into it easily though it’s rough with my skin. I do not feel good in it but what I once knew as discomfort feels normal now. 5. Acceptance meets me quietly. It does not storm the castle. It does not burn my pain to the ground. It meets me right where I’m at. It does not make a show of it. It is what it is. Some would rather call it peace. It settles over me gently reminding me that I’m okay and when I am not I will be again soon. I am 12, I am 19, I am 23, Passing through each stage Just to start over again. I start over. It’s okay to start over. I write myself a letter for the next time. It reads, “You have to face the pain eventually. It’s okay to give it time. It’s okay to wait, but as soon as you are ready you have to face the truth. Yes, it will hurt but I promise it’s a battle worth surviving. It’s okay to hate for a little while just make sure it’s not for too long. It will hurt you more than they did. Don’t waste your heart on hate. It’s okay to love someone anyway, but don’t love yourself less. ‘No matter what’ is not always the right thing for you. It’s not right to love someone so much more than yourself that you would let them hurting you become a habit. It’s okay to be sad, the kind of sadness that gets inside your bones. I promise it won’t break you. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. You have to keep going. There is so much more life in you. It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to start the process over. It’s okay if the order switches up on you. It’s okay to stay in one stage longer than another. It’s okay to stay for a little while. It’s okay if that little while takes longer than expected. It’s okay if it takes a few days or much, much longer. Don’t rush yourself. Stop rushing yourself. It’s okay to mourn for every type of loss, for people, for friendships, for love, for jobs, for health, for faith, for dreams, and the way you used to be. It’s okay to grieve for any type of change. It’s okay to grieve for yourself. You may start over, but it’s okay to start over. It’s okay. You’re okay. And when you’re not you will be again soon.”

TW: Self harm, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety Forgive me, Janelle for all the moments you wanted to speak up but I demanded you stay silent. I told you to not be that girl, and it’s just a joke, and why are you always so offended, you’re too damn sensitive, and maybe they didn’t even mean it, and maybe they did but shut up, shut up, shut up. I drove you past the scene of a crime and as you reached for your phone I assured you someone else would make the call. Forgive me, Janelle for every single time I sliced through your skin like tape on a package looking for relief inside. I only found another thing for you to cry about. I donated your blood but you’re the one who needed help. I see that now. I thought I was taking care of you when I traced over your scars as if refusing to mark any new territory would stop you from noticing how your scars never really did get old. Forgive me, Janelle for telling you to be with him if only to make it so your father wasn’t the only man to have every touched you. As if that boy’s hands could have rinsed you clean. I didn’t know the nightmares would come back. I didn’t know you would come out of this with regret and not redemption. I didn’t know you would never again ask to be held. I didn’t know enough about PTSD or really, I didn’t care enough to notice all the warning signs; your body clothed in caution tape, your mind scrambling to lock the door. Forgive me, Janelle For telling you bi-polar just meant crazy. For all the years I told you that you were both too much and never enough. For pushing away the people who just wanted to take care of you. For telling you to lie to your doctors and your mother and your friends. For teaching you to hold a grudge against God. For convincing you your fears were stronger than you’d ever be. For lying when I said taking medication was a sign of weakness. For making you ashamed of yourself. For making you believe depression was an inescapable death sentence. For all the times I said the pain was not worth it. For telling you hope was foolish. For acting like you didn’t deserve better. For not apologizing sooner.

TW: Depression, Anxiety I am surrounded by loved ones but depression drags me to an empty room. It is patient as it waits for me to forget that there is anybody looking for me. It leans in close and whispers lies like, “They don’t believe your pain is real or maybe they haven’t even noticed it. But they have noticed you’re not fun anymore, that they don’t miss you like they thought they would. They don’t miss you like you thought they would.” Depression has started a fight and wants me to believe I have nobody in my corner. So it isolates me. It locks the door, hangs a sign upon the handle that reads, “Do not disturb.” It draws the blinds. Just long enough for its lies to crawl into my ear and make themselves comfortable so that when I am found, when my loved ones lead me out, I no longer trust them. Depression asks me, “Why didn’t they find you sooner? Did they even look? They would never understand. You could never make them understand. They’ll judge you. They already judge you.” I am surrounded by loved ones but I feel so alone in this. Depression says, “This is going exactly according to plan.” But my loved ones, they have plans too. They find me when I get lost in this pain. They keep promises. They check in. They ask how I’m feeling and they want to know the truth. They take care of me and sometimes that’s picking up my prescriptions and sometimes it’s just listening. Sometimes it’s lying in the dirt with me as I dig my hands into the earth and beg for my perception of things to be grounded in reality. I plead for paranoia and its older sister anxiety to forget my name. I ask my fears to let me go. They ask my fears to let me go. They fight for me. Sometimes we just exist together. When my pain is too great for any words they just show up. When there are no right words to say They stay anyway. They breathe the same air as I do. They mourn beside me. We don’t even have to touch. I will still feel that they are there. This is what it means to be here for someone. Depression falls to its knees pleading with me to walk away, to follow it back into its room. Its whispers become shouts. It yells, “They don’t really love you. They’ll give up on you as soon as they get the—.” I cut it off. I interrupt. I say, “I could really use a friend right now.” I am surrounded by loved ones. They hear me. They listen. They answer, “You don’t ever have to feel alone.”

Your love reminds me I can keep going, that I should keep going. I have so much to remind me of that but sometimes that feels distant or untrue. So I find myself sinking into the earth, being swallowed by the quicksand, overwhelmed by the darkness, haunted by the loneliness. forgetting how to breathe, weighted down from fear, shoes made from cement, buried by hopelessness, a gift from depression. Your love reminds me to fight to reach the air, to burst out of the ground. You take my hands, you pull me out. I gasp like a newborn tasting air for the very first time. I cling to oxygen. It feels precious now. Your love reminds me to gather it in my lungs, to breathe it in and let it out even when it aches, especially when it aches, even when I have to demand myself to do it. You remind my lungs to move. You tell me to be greedy with every breath, to save some for later, to hoard it, savor it, be grateful for it. You remind me that I have so much here to fight for. Loving you feels effortless and so little feels that way lately. Loving you feels soothing. It feels simple. It’s a relief. It feels natural. It feels like my body knowing how to breathe without every needing reminding. It feels like both feet planted on stable ground, the way it should be. I promise to do the same for you, to love you just as deeply. I promise my love will keep you far from hopelessness’ reach. I will remind you how to breathe.

I know you just want be alone but that won’t stop me from being here for you. I can’t sit back and watch you isolate yourself. I hate the thought of you being lonely in your pain. I will plant myself outside the walls that you have built to keep yourself from getting too close, from being let down. I will rise up like an oak tree. I hope to bring you shade when you are burning. I will grow taller than your fortress. My branches reach out for you over your highest walls. You have lived for years inside a jail cell that you have built around yourself but it never feels like home. I will help you find the way out. It gets closer every minute. You are the lone captain putting on a brave face when you’re afraid you’ve been abandoned. You will go down with your ship, but I am your anchor, strong and secure. I’ve been here all along. I will meet you at the bottom of the sea. You don’t have to be alone. I am here for you. I am a place to be yourself at. You can feel at home with me. I will remind you to forgive yourself. I will teach you how to grieve. I am in the trenches. I am a storm chaser. I am a compass. I am the phone picking up your call at 3 in the morning. I will shower you with grace until the shame has rinsed away. I will stay. I’m not sure I can save you from yourself by being here for you, but it won’t be for lack of trying.

You keep talking like you’re broken in this absolute way; like you have damage that love cannot repair, that God cannot reach. You talk about heart break and I know it’s a figurative term, but no matter which way we put it your heart is the strongest muscle in your body. It is not weak enough to permanently shatter. You are resilient. You always make a comeback. I’ve watched it firsthand. I’m not saying the recovery is easy. I’m just saying you always find a way to mend the break. I know you’re tired of people taking advantage of your heart and its place on your sleeve; as if its vulnerability was a sign of weakness and not bravery, but I think it’s right where it belongs. It is a courageous thing to love so fiercely that you would keep your heart out in the open always prepared to try again. It is a badge of honor. You have earned it. Wear it with pride. Your heart is a survivor. I know you’re so tired of begging for help to put it back together as you watch it fall apart in someone else’s hands. Maybe they were young and careless, a baseball through the window. Maybe they knew better but thought only of themselves, a hit and run. I will help you patch the holes. I will apply pressure until you are ready to clot on your own. Your pieces will reach for each other until they fill in the gap. I will reach for you until I fill the gap. I will not let the defeat spread with every beat. You and I will put you back together. We will fill each crack with gold. You will resemble the stained glass in a church’s windows. You will look different but mosaics too are beautiful.

I want to be your caretaker because all I want do is help you. I want to be your bodyguard and protect you from yourself. I want to listen to my loved ones and paint a portrait of what they see in me. I want to do the same for you. We don’t see the truth in a mirror; we can’t see a reflection of our hearts. I think our paintings would be beautiful but I’m just a poet and all I’ve got are my words. They are messages in bottles. I cast them out into the sea. The waves bring them back to me when I feel stranded and alone. They tell me it’s okay to tell the truth, it’s okay to ask for help, it’s okay to not be better yet, it’s okay if you need more time. Give yourself time. It’s okay to lean on others. It’s okay to share the weight. So when my poetry has finished taking care of me I return it to the sea in hopes it would wash onto your shore and you would find it comforting. I use my words as a map for me to follow when I’m hurting. I uncover hope buried at the end. I will give you directions. I will lead the way. I will carry you if you grow weary. My poems are love letters. They remind me to be patient with myself and to be kind to others. I hope they can do the same for you. I want to write something that would speak to you so loudly it would silence any words that was ever used to hurt you. I know they repeat themselves over and over again in your head. I want to shout over them. I want to be the hand that picks you up and dusts you off. I want to wipe away your tears, pat you on the back, hold your hand tightly when it’s shaking. I want to be your participation trophy. You deserve something for trying so hard, for giving your all. I want to be salve on your skin. I want soothe your pain when you are aching to find relief. The world has strung together words on to a bow to use against us but I believe that poetry and all its honesty can heal the wounds they left behind. They try and tell us that pain is a private matter, that we should be ashamed of ourselves, that our voices don’t need to be heard, and I’m just a poet, but remember it’s amazing what we can do with our words.

TW: Depression, Anxiety More hope is on its way. It’ll be here any minute but we don’t have to wait. We don’t have to stay. We can leave right now. I’ve come to get you out of here. This poem is for the people waiting for things to get better. The kind who say, “The lines here always take forever I may as well sit down.” I’m here to tell you to stay on your feet. It’s time to leave. This poem is for the people rationing their hope; Not knowing for sure things will ever get better again, but willing to wait to find out. They are lacking hope, full of doubt; this poem says pack your shit we’re leaving. We don’t need absolute confidence. We don’t need promises or proof first. We just need a shred of hope; a maybe, a what if, any bit will do. We are getting out of this place. We’re gonna find where you belong. I know what you’re thinking. No, it’s not perfect out there, but we aren’t looking for a paradise or any cures. We understand the ebb and flow and whenever we forget, we can remind each other. Things get better, and then maybe they get worse. They take a sharp left and we arrive here once again, but the next day may be the best one in your whole life. We may come back here often. I don’t know how to stay away forever. I don’t have all the answers. All I know is that things can always get better. As long as there is air in your lungs and time on your clock, things can get better again. Ebb and flow. This poem is not about getting happy and staying that way. This poem is not a miracle. It’s assurance that you don’t have to grow accustomed to the dark. This poem is just a spark but it can burn down the house you are trying to build here. It’s a demand that you stop wallowing in the valley. This poem is an offer to take the next train out of this place. It’s a reminder that you don’t have to dwell here just because you know your way around. You were ready to leave a long time ago. You just weren’t sure it was worth it. Why leave when you know you’ll be back here again someday? Maybe sooner than later. This poem is for the doubtful, the hopeless, the ones who are so tired they just stay put. This poem says it’s time leave anyway. This place is not your home.

TW: Dementia, foster care I laugh at a cruel joke. Regret creeps up my neck. Why did I think that was funny? I carry this question the rest of the day. I try to fall asleep with it settling in the back of my mind but a nightmare wakes me. My fear is what if every word that I ever created came alive and followed me? Would they be ugly? Something I would beg to hide? Would they scare me? Would I pretend to not see them standing there? Would they try to hurt me? Or would they go after the people around me? Would I be ashamed to introduce them? Would I want them to be popular? Would I be proud to let them walk beside me? I’m afraid not, and that embarrasses me. There are so many things language can create, poetry, lyrics, scripts, recipes, love letters, get well soon and birthday and anniversary and thank you cards, graduation invitations, a powerful story, a best man’s speech, a moving eulogy, instructions, directions, captions, letters of recommendations, compliments, and apologies. I don’t want to waste my voice creating monsters. If my words were personified I’d want them to be the doctor who holds the daughter of the man newly diagnosed with dementia as she weeps into their white coat. She is not their patient but they take care of her anyway. I’d want them to be the mother who looks into her infant’s blind eyes and sees a perfect baby. I’d want them to resemble Jesus when He said, “Forgive them Father, they know not what they do.” I’d want my words to look like the social worker that replaces trash bags with a suitcase. I’d want them to be the photographer that sheds a tear themselves as they capture 2 brides sobbing down the aisle together. I’d want them to be a counselor, a pastor, an artist, an activist, a teacher, a friend, someone I am proud to be seen with, someone I am not ashamed to name. I’d want them to be someone that speaks up for what is right, encourages those in pain. I want my voice to only create kind, gentle, beautiful things.

TW: Death, PTSD, Chronic Illness, Trauma, Miscarriage, Addiction, Eating Disorders, Suicide, Divorce, PTSD, Anxiety, Depression. I don’t want to forget to check in on people, the day after, the week after, 6 years after. Time has its way of healing us but it doesn’t always look linear. It’s not the same as erasing, it is not a smooth ride, an easy process. There is turbulence. Your stitches rip and the wounds reopen; sometimes we tear them out ourselves. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done and you will still feel like you should just get over it. There are anniversaries every year, we apply for a new job knowing they’ll ask why we left the last one so abruptly, we sleep alone for the first time in years, we flinch at the slightest touch, the insurance doesn’t cover the new treatment, we replace the flowers on gravestones, nothing was saved in the fire, there’s no baby coming home from the hospital with us, we start failing our classes, we have a harder time getting out of bed, we start skipping meals again. In times like these people too often give you space, too much space after they shave their head for you, their hair grows back and your phone doesn’t ring as often. There’s too much space after the 4th time you’ve gotten out of rehab, the 3rd miscarriage, the 2nd eviction notice, or the month after you tried to kill yourself. Maybe this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned divorce, or slept in your car for a couple of weeks, or moved far, far away. Maybe you’ve been sick for a very long time. Maybe they don’t take you seriously enough or maybe they’re just giving you too much space like after you’ve eaten all the casseroles and replied to all the condolences and the quiet sounds so loud. You sign the papers, they throw you a party but no one thinks to call you on Valentine’s day. We forget to ask you if you need help donating your dress. We don’t even notice when you go back to your old name. People are flawed; we forget, we are selfish, we get busy, we don’t make time, we don’t know what to say, we don’t want to say the wrong thing, so we don’t say anything at all. We think skipping the subject might bring you relief. I’m sorry that you’re not alone but you feel so lonely. I’m sorry I forgot it would have been your brother’s birthday. You’ll never forget. The least I could do is remember with you. I’m sorry I didn’t check on you after that argument with your girlfriend. I knew it was a bad one but I figured you would reach out if you needed anything, but sometimes it’s hard to reach out when you feel like all your bones are breaking. I’m sorry that I let so much time grow between my ‘how are you’s. I’m sorry that when it was hard to be there for you, I wasn’t. I’m sorry for not calling you back, for not calling you first. I want my heart to set an alarm, mark the calendar. I don’t want you to feel lost and forgotten in all the space I’m giving you. I want to be there through it all. The earthquake, the aftershock, the relief efforts, the rebuilding of your city, I want to donate my time and my love. When we look at your history books of the aftermath of the great quake of 2018 I want to be in every picture.

I’ve met your bad side. I’ve seen all the parts of you that you were afraid would make me run away. When someone needed your help I’ve seen you think of yourself first. I’ve seen the way you lose your patience when you’re tired and I’ve seen you exhausted. I’ve seen the way you can lie when accepting an apology. You grow resentment like weeds choking the life out of a garden where forgiveness could have blossomed. You hold a secret grudge. I’ve seen the way it eats away at you. I’ve seen you at your worst, the anger taking over, the fear keeping a hold of you. I’ve seen how many times you’ve wanted to give up but I choose you anyway. I want all of you. I’m not scared to love you on the hard days. You are so much more than your flaws. You are so much more than your mistakes. My love comes with grace. When you aren’t feeling like yourself I look into your eyes and I still recognize you. I lay my head on your chest. I listen close to each familiar beat. I know your heart well. I know you well. I accept you completely. I choose every single piece of you, the ugly and the beautiful. My love comes with compassion. It is empathetic. I want to live on your good side. The weather there is lovely, but if it starts to rain I will travel to the other side. The storm is getting pretty bad here, but I know you’re scared to be alone so I’m prepared to stay awhile, as long as it takes. I know exactly what I’m getting into. I won’t abandon any part of you. I’m choosing all of you. My love for you is unconditional.

I have trained for the marathon that is forgiving myself. I have the stamina. I have my master’s degree in teaching you how to do the same but it still pains me to forgive those who are not sorry, as if God hasn’t spent years doing the same for me, but more than anything I hate forgiving the people who hurt the ones I love so deeply. I hold a grudge like a mountain climber without a harness, their fingers strong and bloody, holding on for life. Like an owner’s hands on an anxious dog’s leash, so afraid to let it go. Like a big sister’s grip on her baby brother’s hand as they cross the busy street. Like a search party clings to their flashlights, refusing to give up even when the batteries begin to die. I want to pry my fingers off, to let it fall out of my grasp. I want a black belt in this, I want a trophy case, I want to set a record. I want to be known for this. I want to practice every day.

I want to dismantle my belief that sensitivity is a weakness I am forced to carry. I’ve heard that for so long I started to agree. But I reject that, I shun it. To be gentle is to be brave. I use compassion as a weapon. I strap it to my back. I could not bear its weight if I was spineless. I fight for what is right. I advocate. I speak the truth. I want justice and equality. I want to play a part in ending stigma. I will not be ashamed of my heart any longer. It is capable of so much empathy. That is a sign of strength. I will carry it proudly.

TW: Self harm, fat phobia, racism I write a letter to my body. I say, “I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.” This is an apology to my skeleton and its skin, every joint, every pound, every hair on my head. I say, “I’m sorry for criticizing you, for not being gentle, for not respecting you; as if we haven’t been together for 25 years, as if you haven’t felt my pain; every heart break, all the guilt, the sorrow and the shame. I took it out on you as if you haven’t fought for me in all the battles I have faced, as if you aren’t the temple I should have worshiped at every single day. I didn’t love you when that’s all you really needed from me.” My letter is longer than I thought it’d be but I’ve made so many mistakes. You deserve a real apology. I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I say, “I never should have considered your shape a flaw, your color a curse, your skin too damaged. The marks stretched across your body like tiger stripes, they are beautiful. I’m sorry I made you cry at the thought of someone seeing them. You should wear them like a badge. They say this body has learned to adapt. They match your mother’s and your best friend’s. You don’t have to be ashamed of them. I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I caked your skin in cover-up to hide every blemish but when that wasn’t enough I asked you to hide instead. It started when you were only 9. The stress took such a toll on you. It took me 10 more years before I let the sun touch your naked face, your bare shoulders. I should have never kept that warmth from you. Now I only compare your scars to paint being splattered across the canvas of your body. You are a work of art. I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I’m sorry for every time I reminded someone of your father’s pale German, Irish skin asking them to look past the color your mother passed down to you. I wanted you to always be labeled as mixed, diluted, not completely one of her people. I wanted you to be more acceptable, more relatable in your small minded town where people mostly look the same; mostly nothing like you. I just wanted you to feel wanted. I wanted you to feel like you belonged. I was looking for approval from the wrong people. They were showing me whiteness was the norm, the preferred, the privileged. I wanted you to be less colorful, but now I promise to admire the way your skin looks like sand in the wintertime. I know the ocean feels like home. I think it’s only right you look like you belong there. In the summer light you are a golden shade of brown. It is my new favorite color. It looks like the palm tree trunks that were scattered across the backyard of your childhood home. It’s the same shade as Lady, the dog you got when you were 4. She was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. It’s the way your mother likes her coffee. I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. You deserve to take up space regardless of how much you weigh. Not fitting the mold does not mean you belong here any less. They say it’s what’s on the inside that counts and that is true but your body does not need to be erased, put aside, forgotten, a secret, displaced. Your thighs are almost always touching one another like your fingers in a fist, you are stronger than I gave you credit for. You carried on even when I introduced you to shame. I should have explained that fat is just a descriptor; it is a fact, not an insult. Whether other people agree or not, whether other people like it or not. That word will no longer be a weapon used against you. You are 5’8, you have a small gap in your front teeth, you have brown eyes, you are fat. It is not a label for others to read to decide if they want you or not. It’s just another thing about you like your love for pineapple on pizza, your right-handedness, your job title. I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I should apologize every day for harming you. I clawed at your flesh when I was scared like a cat being thrown into a lake. I left behind scars laid out like blueprints. They explain how to punish yourself for a crime you did not commit. Forgive me for setting you up. When I was embarrassed of the marks I was leaving behind on your skin I had you lie in bed until your bones ached. I pulled your hair, I bruised your knuckles on the floor, I screamed into your pillow at the top of my lungs until your throat was sore. I never should have touched you when I was angry or afraid. I thought torturing you might give me some answers. I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it, but I’m ready to make things right. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner.”

TW: Sexual abuse, PTSD, Trauma, Depression, Anxiety I think I'm over it. I think it's in the past. I shut the door behind me but trauma creeps in closer when I'm not expecting it. It begins pounding on the doors, tearing at the seams, trying to rip its way out of me. I hear it when my brakes squeak. I react unexpectedly, unsettled, there’s something about that sound. The clock turns back and I see myself as a child hiding in the bathroom from daddy, forgetting that the door creaks, forgetting to lock it behind me. I feel it when someone reaches out to hold my hand. My hands are the most sensitive part of my body. I want to cut them off at the wrist. I can't stand the feeling of being held sometimes, even if it's only our palms touching. When our fingers grasp tight to one another too often I am suffocating. Trauma leaves me fragile so I hang a sign around my neck that says, “Please, don't touch the glass.” I hear it in the word relax, always in my father’s voice. Not when we're talking about vacations or a nap but when someone is patronizing me, trivializing my concerns, my anxiety, my intuition telling me that something isn't right, something needs to change, that this is not okay. I smell the orange peels my student has laid out in front of him at the lunch table. The soap my father used came in an orange bottle. He smelled like citrus every day. I step away. I gather myself in the staff bathroom but as I open the door, I hear it creak. Time is healing me. God gives me more every day and I am learning to start saying thank you. I don't think of my father on his birthday anymore. Thank you. One of the most important people in my life was born on the same day. Daniel would never cut me open and demand that I stop bleeding. Thank you. When I hear the name Chris I think of my cousin, I think of celebrities, I think of one of my best friends. He would never plant a seed of doubt in my mind of God’s love for me and leave me overgrown and withering. I don't see my father’s face at the sound of that name anymore. Thank you. I've started sleeping through the quiet. I don’t need the music as often to drown out my fears of tomorrow. Thank you. The silence isn't as frightening as it used to be. The nightmares are retreating. They have packed their belongings and are getting out of town. Thank you. I’ve started to reach out for my loved ones’ hands when they are hurting. When there’s nothing more to say I reach out for them. I hold them close even if for now it’s only with my hands. I think that says more than anything. Thank you. Time is helping me take control of the damage trauma left behind in its wake. Time is teaching me how to put a muzzle on its mouth, restrain it, master it, keep its teeth far away from my throat. Time is molding it into something more comforting. It takes the fragile sign around my neck and turns it into one for me to hold at the airport for when people who hurt from the same kind of pain as I do arrive in the valley. It reads, “I am here for you. You are not alone in this. I will help you carry your luggage but we will be leaving this place soon.” Time is helping me to use the scars trauma left throughout my body. I take a picture. I hang it in a museum. It shows a story of survival. It shows how much pain one can endure and still have victory, how you can bury someone 6 feet under anguish and shame and watch as they claw their way out from underneath all those layers of earth and defeat; grow into a pine tree, bring joy to the holidays, keep a family warm when it is snowing or maybe become a book of poetry.

TW: Self Harm, Suicide, Depression I learned how to braid when I was nine. I learned what depression felt like soon after. Years later I would use that knowledge to braid fear into a rope, wrap it tight around my neck, always looking for a place to hang it. But lately hope has begun to unravel it. replace it with the scarf my mother bought me last fall, kiss me there like a lover someday will. It wraps its arms around my neck like a child saying, “Thank you for giving me another chance; I promise you won’t regret it.”

If I could crack open each one of my ribs and rip out the shame from my chest trust me, I would. But it would fight for its life because it’s always planned to take mine. I can’t call out for help because stigma has been building in my heart from years of choking on the truth and purging out ‘I’m fines’ because I believed the lie that it’s not okay to not be okay this often , but I’m done. A lie, is a lie, is a lie, no matter how long you believed it, and the truth is shame has overstayed. It grew along the walls of my chest like ivy, strong and defiant, but it will not make its home here. As long as my heart is still beating I have more chances to be honest. I clear a path from my ribcage to my tongue. I say, “I am hurting.” I say, “I am scared.” I speak the truth because I don’t want my voice to be buried beneath layers of shame any longer. I carve away at it every time I say, “It’s been hard lately.” I’ll keep saying it until asking for help comes out loud and clear. I want to pay it forward because my voice has never been as brave and powerful and beautiful as when it’s asking someone else, “How are you really doing?” Honesty pours out of my lips and sometimes it’s used against me but with every beat, I try again.

TW: Self harm, suicide, trauma, depression, anxiety I cope as well as I can. I cope in the only ways I know how. They work for me. I cope by writing this poem. I’ll cope by saying it out loud. I cope by eating Reese’s’ ice cream out of the container in Bethany’s kitchen as we watch the Troll’s movie for the hundredth time. I take medicine. I stop looking for a cure. I accept myself. I cope with dark humor and big foot documentaries, I cope by talking to God and my mother and I am trying to find the right therapist too. I cope with Wawa egg sandwiches and going to see Kubo and the Two Strings by myself. I drive to Point Lookout in the middle of the night. I listen to the waves. I cope by painting my room, I hang my art on the walls, I cope by trying pizza in every city I visit. I listen to Dan’s EP on repeat on my way to a job that I love. I plan out the most perfect Halloween costume for me and my friends when it’s only June. I wear that big ugly brown sweater. I get a genie lamp tattoo. I cope by standing with Ben in the freezing ocean in September. I go see my favorite band and I pretend they played every song they’ve ever made. I text Chris to pray for me when I’m too discouraged to do it myself. I believe God still wants to hear from me even if it’s through somebody else. I help Brielle move into her new apartment. She places my first book onto her shelf. I cope by buying a pineapple - shaped phone case, then a cactus, then Baxmax, Totoro, a chocolate bar, officer Judy Hopps and Stitch. I stand on top of a waterfall. Tina and I send each other the same lyrics, back and forth, back and forth; I never grow tired of our song. I cope by celebrating my birthday the entire month of February. I wear a tiara and everything. I know that’s a lot but if I’m being honest and I’m always trying to be honest I don’t always feel like celebrating life. I think it’s important to stretch the party out when I do. I cope by cutting all my hair off at 1 in the morning. I never regret it. I cope by begging my best friends to take pictures in the photo booth with me until they finally give in. I am always watching for the sunset. I drop everything and live out of a car with my friends for a week just to hear their songs every night, to push myself, because I’m ready to be free. I laugh loudly, I laugh often. I have a worn-out library card and a favorite spot at the beach. I keep Kate on speed dial. I cry big, ugly, fat tears over those YouTube videos of kids finding out they’re going to Disneyworld. I cope by checking in on Ciera. I know that things are tough for her lately. I find comfort in comforting. I cope with visualizing and counting and breathing techniques and telling the truth. I cope with extra sleep. Yes, Netflix I’m still watching. I make all the women in my life handmade valentines for Galentine’s Day. I wear a lot of yellow, like school bus, SpongeBob, lemon, yellow. I also wear a lot of floral print that probably resembles your grandma’s couch because I think it makes me look like sunshine and a flower garden and that really makes me smile. I sing that baby shark song to my students. I hold them extra tight. I cope so much better now than I used to. I was mostly just surviving back then. I won’t spend much time explaining my alternatives, my worst-case scenarios. Sometimes I still fall back on them. They look like self-injury, not always in the ways you’re used to seeing it. Sometimes it’s just violent words thrown at the person who is the most gentle with me. The shrapnel slices through my body too. It’s skipping my pills saying, “What’s the point if they’re not curing me?” It’s refusing to be vulnerable with anybody. It’s isolating myself. It’s holding on to a mantra that just repeats, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” And yeah, sometimes it cutting; sometimes it gets physical, but there are so many more ways to harm yourself. I’ve learned that the hard way, though lately, I’ve been finding better ways to wash the pain down. I chew it up and swallow it. The taste is bittersweet. I am proud of myself for keeping it down but I wish it had never crawled in through my bared front teeth in the first place. But I am coping. I am dealing with it. I am healing from it the best I know how. I cope by putting 8 post-it notes on the wall I wake up facing every morning. They say, “You will not always feel this way, give it more time, you never would have thought you would make it this far, depression is not terminal, you have so much left to say, you are still needed here, keep going, Janelle, you are loved.”

I want to be steadfast in my belief that God can always hear me, that He knows my voice well, that He always wants what's best for me, that His plans are always to prosper and never to harm, that His timing is better than my own, but I have doubts. I am Thomas. I am Jonah looking for a place to hide. I am Peter and there is crowing in the distance. I am Lot's wife and I can't help looking back. I want more faith than fear. That’s been so hard lately, and by lately, I mean the past 16 years. I am still learning. I continue to grow. I am trying to trust but there is still so much work to be done. I have to stop forgetting that God never takes time off. He never takes leave from me. I need to remember He is listening when I'm on my knees screaming at the heavens that, "This just isn't fair!" and when I'm whispering, "I can’t do this anymore" and when I'm thinking He can't hear me, when I feel alone in this. He is listening when pain has left me speechless. I am at a loss for words but He can hear a feeling; the feeling in my gut that I was too ashamed to admit out loud. It sounds like, “God, I am scared to be more like Your son. I am scared that it will hurt too much. I am scared that I hurt too much. I am scared that I'm too fragile for this, that I'm not strong enough for You. I am scared You ask too much of me.” I plead, “Please stop asking so much of me.” You answer my cries and my whispers and my fears. You say, “I am, I am, I am, I am here. I am listening. I never grow tired of teaching you the lessons that you are so tired of learning. Let me take this weight from you before you can collapse. If you're not ready, I will wait. I will pick you up from the floor. I will raise you up onto your feet. I will teach you how to walk again. I will pull you out of the valley. The valley is not your home. I am your home. You feel sick over this because you miss me, because you tried to hide from me, because you tried to do this on your own. You always try to do it on your own but I am here. I am listening. I am, I am, I am, I am here.” God, when anger’s got control over my tongue, You hear me out. You do not turn away from me. When pride holds me back from You, You wait for me with open arms. I want to be devoted. I want to be Ruth. I want to be unrecognizable like Paul after he changed his name. I want to trust You enough to be so vulnerable that I would use my tears to wash Your son's feet. I want to be Job. I want to be Job so badly. When everything is taken from me I want You to be enough. I want more faith than fear. I want to be steadfast in my belief that You have and will always be here. You prove it every day. You tell me, “I love you through the doubts and the fear, the anger and the pride. I am, I am, I am, I am still here.”

TW: anxiety, agoraphobia People can change. Time does heal. Things will get better; they can always turn around. Life is a circle. I can return to the start, my joy anew, my hope restored, my healing without boundaries. My story is not finished. I don’t want to rush myself. I don’t want to quit before my time is up because I used to be afraid to leave my house, talk to strangers, get behind the wheel; I know it’s hard to believe when I’m standing here in front of you but most days I could not even walk to my mailbox. It is a poem in itself that I leave my town, my house, my bed, to stand in front of people I have never met, and share hope in the form of poetry. Some would rather call it testimony If you need to I hope you hear it as your truth, a sign, an answer, assurance, a promise. God has more plans for you. You have more chances for things to go right. You have more time for them to get better. The sun rises every single morning no matter how dark it got the night before. You have to keep trying. There is healing in the waiting. The light always returns. Find a way to hold on. I will help you. I promise it’s worth it. because after every one of these shows I say goodbye to my new friends, get in my car and drive home and the first thing I do is check the mail.