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In Perhaps the Biggest Act of Self-Sabotage, I Said Nothing
7 years of a progressively encroaching hell
And I came home. And I said nothing.
And the darkness grew.
And the darkness took over.
And nights were sleepless.
And days burned hot with internal rage.
And I almost.
Sometimes.
Got close.
To saying it.
But instead . . . nothing.
And one day I called.
For help.
After years of hoping, praying, begging for someone to call me. Never once thinking I could just call, could just reach out.
And so I called.
This was the first time I’d seriously asked for any kind of help in dealing with . . . the darkness.
And still. I said nothing. Not to those closest to me.
Bills were paid and gifts were given and parties were thrown and trips were taken.
And I said nothing.
Weak and cowardly, I was called. Called out. By someone who knew… sort of knew.
I said nothing.
After the crash.
Something.
But certainly not everything.
Those details would trickle out. Seemingly small. Deceptively explosive.
It might have.
Would have.
Been different.
If on that day. Those many years ago.
I’d said something.
Good to at least say something.
Better to explain.
Best to just say it all. The truth. The whole of it.
As it turns out, those unsaid words profoundly changed my life. And the lives of those around me.
