I used to feel ashamed anytime I told somebody about my past. There have been some pretty dark times and for the longest, I told myself I was okay because other people would tell me they’ve had it worse. I thought I had no place to tell my story. I didn’t want to belittle others and I didn’t want to offend anyone I talked to.

So, I kept quiet and I pushed the thoughts out of my head as much as I could. I tried to talk about what happened to me as casually as I could and when people would wearily ask me if I was okay, I would nod and say that I was. I said I was unaffected because I thought I should be. I thought I was weak and selfish if I were anything else other than unaffected. It was like this for years, while all the memories and thoughts from that particularly difficult time in my life festered and rounded themselves up.

My memory became a shell of what it used to be. There were so many holes and missing parts that other people could recall with ease. I’ve had my fair share of conversations ended because I couldn’t remember something someone was talking about. The disbelief they wore on their faces and the surprise that dripped from their astounded, “Really? You don’t remember that?” was enough to leave a bitter taste in my mouth and want to change the subject -- and change it as quickly as possible.

Anything that reminded me, even if for a moment, that I was not okay when it came down to it was scrubbed from my mind ferociously. I never really acknowledged that it wasn’t that normal, only saying that I don’t remember things very well, that something else must have been going on. There was no voice in the back of my head to remind me why a certain memory was so hard to recall. It was only that it could not be recalled.

It wasn’t until I began to crack in middle school that those thoughts and memories began to trickle in slowly. It was still easy to avoid in the beginning and I took advantage of that as much as I could. But eventually, it wore me down and I began to have extremely worrying thoughts. I didn’t know what was going on because my mind still refused to acknowledge the memories I had avoided for years, and I thought I was worthless and that nothing good would ever come of me. I felt lost for a couple of years until the pressure finally gave way to a slew of things I never wanted to remember.

It was absolutely terrifying to go through because it wasn’t like a quick snap and release of everything at once. It was sprinkled out over the course of months and eventually years, sneaking in and demanding my attention immediately. It broke me every single time it happened and I wasn’t sure what to do.

I don’t really know how I was able to get past it like I did. It certainly wasn’t a very smooth transition to go from a completely (emotionally) destroyed person to a somewhat functional high school student. It wasn’t easy either.

I can’t remember anything too specific about that point in my life other than realizing I am not as okay as thought I was. It’s not like it was before, though, when I purposely blocked out everything I could. Instead, I just didn’t pay much attention to what else was going on around me. It feels very strange to think about how my life was back then.

Ever since then, I cannot bring myself to sweep away the thoughts and memories I had once tried so hard to get rid of. I give them my time, probably too much of it, and I find myself trying to live through them as much as possible. Not because I want to torture myself, but because I can’t bear the thought of them sneaking up on me like I allowed them to before. I overthink and pick at every bad situation I am faced with. I relive every bad moment repeatedly, every single day because I can’t afford to do otherwise anymore.

I know I’m being terribly vague about the things I’ve tried so hard to forget. I’m sorry for that. The truth is, I tried to write an article about those things specifically and it was just too difficult for me to do at this time. It’s too much. I’ve written about it countless times when I knew it was only going to be seen by my eyes. I’ve told very close friends about it and they know. My family knows.

I am just not ready to talk about it through an article. It’s a very sensitive subject that I rarely bring up or want to bring up. I noticed as I wrote this that I’ve barely touched on the subject the countless times I’ve been to therapy or counseling, even though it might be the root of a lot of the problems I deal with. It’s funny in the worst of ways.

Everyone goes through many different difficult things in life. Whether or not it’s more or less “extreme” than something I’ve been through is none of my business. If someone is hurting, they’re hurting. Telling them that it’s nothing will not magically make it so. They might lash out or they might do exactly as I did and just not acknowledge it. Neither of those options are good.

I just wanted understanding and it was mostly thrown in my face at first, causing me to not even want to admit that something had definitely happened and I was not okay because of it.