Don't Tell Anyone.

Don’t tell anyone.

Don’t tell anyone.

Don’t tell anyone.

Tell them what? I want to ask what you mean, because somehow, I think I forgot. You told me to keep quiet, but what was it I was supposed to stay hushed about? I believe I may have hidden it somewhere deep in my head. Too hard to dig out. I know that it was painful, because my heart and lungs, they remember. They remember so vividly. My heart skips its beat sometimes and my lungs fill with cement, but I am not so sure why. The only thing I can remember is that you told me to forget.

Maybe, I am crazy. Maybe that is what I was not supposed to tell anyone. That I am unhinged and incapable of breathing on my own in crowded rooms. That sometimes, I can almost see the walls close in as I feel them. I lay awake far too often and the slightest wave in the calm makes me shiver.

Don’t tell anyone.

I like to guess what it is that you meant. It has been so long, I do not even know if the way you said it sounds right in my head, but it comes out not so kindly. The words are wrapped in dark tendrils of hurt and you do not look like you in my memory. You are covered in shadows and look like something I would ask my mother to check under the bed for. The darkness follows me, but I am starting to think I was supposed to hide beneath it. It feels so cold here, but I am not sure how I am supposed to warm myself.

Don’t tell anyone.

I know whatever it was, I did not understand it at the time. I know that I cry about it sometimes, but I did not cry then. It is frustrating, because which of them is right? Should I have cried then? Am I too late to be upset about it now? Did I miss my chance to remember it in order to feel it? If you pass that statute of limitations outside of your head, do you pass it inside of it, too?

Tell me everything.

That is what the therapist asked of me today. What was I to tell her? I am still not sure, but she is sure that I need to remember. That she needs to remind me in order to start to heal me. I told her that I do not think it is a good idea. That if my lungs can not fill themselves over what they do not know, I fear they will collapse when they do. She told me that they will never fill themselves again if I do not face it. I told her that I am not even sure what it is that is stopping them.

Tell me something.

The therapist begs me to tell her anything. Anything that I remember about what I can not recall. It does not make much sense to me, but I think it is starting to. I fear that it will make sense. I do not think I want it to make sense. My head feels so heavy when I am here. They have told me that I need medicine for my head. That I am ill. Ill over what, I am not sure, but something is telling me that she is right.

Tell yourself.

I remembered something today. I remembered the floors. They were cement and they were in your basement. It was a dirty half of the basement and it was where you took me. I am not sure why you chose that half, but I know that it made me feel dirty. Dirtier than I had already felt when I was down there. Today, I remembered what you did and now, I have to tell myself to let it be remembered. I feel as ill as they tell me I am.

You have to tell someone.

I am beginning to find all of this awfully ironic. The shame and pain that my body carried, but my mind could not. It carried it all for you and yet, you seem so light. They tell me that I must speak to someone. They tell me that you must not pretend anymore. It has done its damage. You have done your damage to me and I did what you asked. I did what you asked and thought nothing of it, until I realized why you had asked anything of me. So, I carried this for you and now I must let it go. I must let someone know and I must rid myself of this load. I will reserve no more space for you. Not in my heart. Not in my head or my lungs.

You should know, that although the actions were painful, what you asked me to do with them was agonizing. To hold them for you. To keep them tucked away so that it would benefit you while my body rotted under the pressure of it.

Tell everyone.

The head will do beautiful things to protect what it holds. It will block and forget and send the pain everywhere but where it resides. It will numb your limbs and cut your breath off short. It will starve you and make you an insomniac, should it have to. It will follow the rule of “don’t tell anyone” and it will follow it flawlessly, but fighting it will be the best thing to do. Shame is a tricky feeling. It disguises itself with your face and runs itself through your veins without asking. And the lies become so common that they feel like truth, but they are not and they never were. Exposing what was supposed to be hidden is so awfully painful, but it was never ours to hide anyway.

Don’t just tell anyone.

Tell your mom.

Tell your best friend.

Tell someone to trust.

Tell everyone you need to.