That was all I had.

Seven distinct memories of my childhood. All about you and the feelings I couldn’t ignore.

The memories of you were kept like secrets in my throat. No one could hear them, no one could see them. With every lesson learned and rehabilitation technique used, I began to fear that they were slapping my back, trying to get me to choke or spit out them out. I watched so, so many of them fly from my lips and out of sight, but the ones that clang to my windpipe, those damned, seven memories, were the ones that still haunted me. The ones that made me wonder, still, if 'those' feelings were real.

But those memories were then. This is now.

This is me trying to piece myself together. Those three months that had turned into two years. The words they used whenever they talked to my parents. [i]…He’s relapsed. He’s having trouble. We’re trying. He’s failing to... We need more time. We’re almost there.[/i]

These are the facts I can’t ignore. The ones that have been drilled inside me. The ones that contradict every memory of you.

This is the picture of Anthony Shea on the graduation wall in the facility. His freckled face and his lackadaisical eyes.

This is knowing why he killed himself and thinking it was justifiable.

This is watching every boy walk in with a fresh face and walk out with empty eyes.

These are the long nights I spent thinking I'd never make it out of here.

This is why I’m so glad you lied to Mom and Dad.

This is me now.

And I’m afraid I’m never coming back.