Back it up and do it again.

I remember I used to put a pillowcase over my head whenever I cried when I was little, because even then, I knew if people knew I wasn't strong enough not to cry, I'd get eaten alive.
And I remember being so proud of myself anytime I got hurt and didn't cry. And I remember not being able to cry and how suddenly that wasn't a good thing. I remember not crying for over six years.

I remember not going to the doctor for over six years, and how, when I finally went, there were all these potential problems I'd had no idea about and that suddenly there were all these surgeries I could have.
I remember hating the hospital and the nurses and not hating that one nurse, but finding out later that was because she was a children's nurse and one of the nicest ladies in the building.
I remember the needles and discovering my veins are very, very, very bad for IVs, and how doctors and nurses don't like dealing with my veins.

I remember when the jokes about the meds were just that. I remember when I used to think my family was normal and it wasn't until later that I learned how weird my family was.
I remember when I learned he was going to therapy and I still don't know why. I remember asking him about it and him telling me, "You don't need to know, there's no way you'll ever be in a place as dark as I was." and how badly I wanted to slap him and him not getting why I was so mad afterwards.
I remember the awful year with that lady who shall not be mentioned and my mom's mental breakdowns that followed.

I remember when my mom left my family for awhile. I thought she was never coming back and I remember being so scared that it was all my fault.
I remember when my dad scared me so bad I cried and wouldn't look at him for awhile and how sometimes I still flinch.
I remember a few weeks later when my friends told me they loved my parents. I remember smiling and not saying anything.

I remember when the shaking started and the doctor telling me it wasn't a problem. And wondering how my world vibrating could not be a problem, but not arguing because he went to medical school and I didn't.
And I remember not knowing which hand was left and which was right because I wrote with both, until my kindergarten teacher yelled at me for always coloring with both hands. I remember not arguing with her, either, because she was an adult.

I remember when I stopped believing in adults and when I suddenly turned seventeen and in just a year I'd be one of them.
I remember that terrifying me, almost as much as college does and almost as much as being patronized angers me now.

I remember every word to Shania Twain's, "Man, I Feel Like A Woman" because when I was five, I used to dance and sing to that every day and I'd belt it whenever it came on the radio.
I remember when I never doubted God and how I always thought he was so lonely, so whenever I prayed, I'd ask him to bless himself before anyone else. I still think he's pretty lonely.

Mostly though, I remember sneaking out just to sit outside, before he got caught sneaking outside and my dad started paying attention.
And I remember when I thought everyone spoke to the stars.

I ain't even playing my own game.

I'm a murderer.
Who did you murder?

Him and me.

And yes, he was my obscure "You".

I'll never forgive myself for giving into the cliche and writing about "You" and I'll never forgive Nelson for giving me the idea to do so.

But mostly I'll never forgive myself for killing him and me.

No one will ever understand why I did it. But I guess that's the case will all murders.

It has nothing to do with the other hims and everything to do with me.

It has nothing to do with my love going away, because that's not how love works. It doesn't die. Love is the only eternal thing, ever. That's why people forget that Romeo and Juliet is supposed to be a tragedy. Because sadness isn't eternal, but love is. And no matter the shallowness of your love, you'll always remember it.

But I had to do it, so I did.

Don't say you're sorry, because I knew it would hurt.

I knew it would hurt to kill him and me, me and him, but I did it anyway.

Now he is gone and we are dead, but in all the wrong ways.

Now I can bite my fingernails, because I'm not growing them out for him anymore. So I do, so short my fingers bleed. I can stop eating, because he's not around to worry about me anymore. So I do, and my food goes in the trash when no one is looking. I can kiss someone, because I don't have to be there for him. But I don't.

I still don't know why that is.

Maybe it's because I'm still in mourning over the death of us.

Does a murderer normally mourn the death of her victims?

Probably not.

Guess I'm just not a typical killer.

It'll soon be worth it when I get there.

People don't like anger.
They hide it away and keep it under the rug.
No, you can't yell indoors. No, you can't break that vase. Those are the rules.
And why wouldn't they put it in the dark place no one likes to go?
Anger is ugly.
People don't like ugly.

I'm an angry person.
Does that make me ugly?

My friends think they get it. They think my anger is when I yell every day or when I glare or threaten them.
It's not.
My anger is deep down inside me. It's a beast.
It's wild.
My anger is when I go silent. The kind of silent that sucks the color out of the world.
It's scary.
My anger makes me shake, makes me vibrate, makes me see red at the fringes of my vision.
It's bright.
My anger makes my veins burn with adrenaline. It sets me on fire.
It's hot.

When I'm angry, I run. Run until I cough blood and my legs ache. I pace and turn and inhale, exhale. The cold air makes it better, makes me remember I'm here and can control my anger.
If I break myself, I won't have to break others.

When I'm angry, reason fades away. There's only the now, the moment. There's the threat and the option of fight or flight. Anger makes me pick fight. Anger makes me hurt them. Makes me want take their ability to breathe.
My anger is explosive and frightens me.

Now please don't be afraid. Please, don't think I'm broken. I promise I won't hurt you. I promise I won't explode on you. No, darling, don't apologize. Never you, I'd never hurt you. Don't look at me with those eyes, those eyes that see that dark part of me. The ugly part of me.

Anger is ugly.

I guess that makes me ugly, too.

But I already knew that anyway.