They greet me with the same rehearsed lines as last Sunday. Still, I shake their hands warmly, holding my head high. I used to hate every last one of them, and for what? For being the same things I often am— unsure of how to help, painfully mortal, longing to be of some eternal use. All this, hidden in the obligatory: “We missed you last week. Are you still working? What a nice sweater!” They are trying, and for that I cannot fault them.

I regret not realizing sooner that the gnarled hands I shake, and the soft ones, from the skillful veterinarian’s, to the gangly elementary school boy’s— they are all precious, and human, and pulsing with life, and they each have the same wonder as they take my own small hand in theirs. What’s more, we all secretly hate the long sermons, but love to sing “How Great Thou Art,” and truly just want to go home and nap for the rest of the afternoon.

Why did I never realize that with these acquaintances, whom I see every week but scarcely know, I share the dread in my heart, and the peace, too? The dairy farmer and the choir teacher and the young mother with 3 small children, they feel the same things I do, even as we laugh forcedly, and make our way to the door to shake the pastor’s hand. It is all too easy to be deceived into thinking my own depraved darkness is more profound than theirs, or my joy more important. I regret not lending a sympathetic ear, if only for a moment, and a more forceful smile. Perhaps this is what is meant by, “Bear one another’s burdens.” How could theirs be too heavy, far too problematic for me to carry, if they are the same as mine? And how often the weight on my shoulders is eased, by simply the kind “Hello” of the old pianist, or the polite nod of the teenaged boy in the cowboy boots! How hard can it really be to show kindness, despite my own hurt? How very difficult? I purpose in myself, more intently and more often, to at least care.

Trigger Warning: Discussions of SA

I'm not going to try to be poetic here. I'm just going to be honest and real.

About two years ago, I had my first genuine friendship with a girl that I will call her Chloe. I'm going to keep her anonymous. This is not her real name. I knew when we first met, something clicked in between us, like a lightbulb starting to flicker after decades of being lightless. Keep in mind that we were young and we didn't know better about most life lessons. We met during school and I was surprised when she wanted to be my friend. A friend. I had a friend.

During the summer, things took an unexpected turn. This was when we were both struggling with our mental health, so we weren't at our best, and we knew that, but one thing I regret to this day was not properly communicating with her when things went wrong. There were countless days where the things she said offended me, and I regret not speaking up about it. I just let her continue to hurt me because I didn't know better back then. I didn't know how to stand up for myself. I was afraid of her reaction if I ever spoke up and created boundaries. I grew up in a household where expressing my feelings, especially my negative feelings, were invalid and that if I ever spoke up about my negative feelings, that was practically asking for a free punishment from your parents.

It'd gotten to the point where it was starting to truly affect me emotionally. I'm not saying that Chloe was the reason why at one point I was in my depressive state, but she was able to contribute to everything that was already adding up in my plate, when everything was so overwhelming for me. But back then, I didn't know how to open up, so I just essentially suffered in silence. There were so many stories out there talking about their bad experiences of opening up, and that eventually influenced me to not do the same.

Fast forward to a new year in school. It was a rough start. I was SA'd by a student. Before that time period, it was a family member. Multiple times. The student got away with it because I never spoke up. I never told my family about the family member one, but I told them about the student one. They didn't take it seriously. They assumed that the student just wanted to play with me and I was being the mean one but that wasn't the case. I was afraid of what was going to happen if I ever did. I told Chloe about it. Chloe then proceeds to make jokes about it. She also then proceeds to say that it wasn't even that bad. It hurt me. It really fucking did. And at that point, I just kept my mouth shut because I was afraid.

Thinking about it still made my heart turn into fragments.

I was thirteen.

All of this was because I was stubborn and I should've spoken up. I never spoke up about my problems and when I finally did, she invalidated all of them, stating that it could've been worse. Yeah, it could've been worse, but that doesn't change the fact that I was hurting. I knew she was hurting too. I knew we were both hurting. I knew that I shouldn't take everything so personally. But looking back at my old journals, back in the days where I would write about my feelings every time I got upset, I swear, there were so many times when I tried to justify all of her actions and blamed it all myself, because again,

I regret not speaking up earlier.

If I spoke up, all of the future conflicts could've been avoided.

I truly believed it was my fault. I really believed that it was my fault that she was saying those things to me. And honestly, part of it was. Because I never spoke up. I never stood up to myself. And even worse, when I noticed a change in her behavior, perhaps a more hopeless mood, I never spoke up. I never really went out of my way to ask how she was doing. That made me a bad friend. That made me an awful one.

I knew I was trying back then. I was trying, I really was. But the problem was, I didn't know how to love.

We then ended our friendship not even a year later. We couldn't last a year. A goddamn year. Eleven months, even. But I hated how I was so attached so easily because that was the first time that I actually made a friend. I was thirteen. Thirteen-year-old me never really had a friend. I was lonely. I thought I was finally out of that darkness. I mean, I was, for a short moment.

This is why I regret not speaking up.

But I don't regret regretting it. Because I'm older now. I know better now.

I know how to be a better friend.

I'm not a perfect friend, but I'm getting there.

I'm learning how to love.

They didn't host a funeral, and the obituary was pretty lean on details.

It lists his kids, both grown, one with kids of his own. It lists his current fiance as his "significant other." There's no mention of the wife he brought back from his military service overseas.

Why would it mention her, anyway? She ditched him after running around on him for years with Rangers she'd pick up in any one of several Bay Street bars. Fuck her.

Fuck him, too.

I used to work with him. Two different jobs, actually. The first one, I absolutely hated being his partner. Hated it. We stood shift together on a permanent night watch back in my deputy days. He was the type of guy who liked to stay busy when people were watching. Constant high-energy, constant motion, constant demanding of all the attention and work credit. "HEY LOOK AT ME I'M DOING THESE THINGS WHILE NO ONE ELSE IS!" He'd run down that hill and jump all over that one cow, the whole while, bragging about how he was first down the hill and how he was nailing that cow so good. Meanwhile, the rest of us would still be calmly ease down the hill, watching him burn himself out. Then we'd slowly take our turn at each of the other cows, but we wouldn't talk about it. When he left, all the things he used to run around and do and demand credit for doing, I then walked around and did. And didn't say anything about. And people noticed how much quieter things were, and how things got done meticulously, carefully, and calmly.

Fuck him, too.

We were friends, though. He was a funny guy. Quick witted, quick tempered, whip smart. He was a reader, but never where people would see him. He was typical on the surface; football, red meat, Coors Light. Dig a little deeper, and he was Tolstoy, vindaloo, and hefeweizen.

He drove a brand new Ford f150 that he named Phil. He'd wash and wax Phil at least every other week. He loved that truck. I was surprised when he sold it off.

I was surprised when he did a lot of things. When he quit the department. When he quit his next three jobs, each of which was quite good considering he lucked into them. When he moved back home with his dad after finally leaving that turd he married (the whole while insisting she was beautiful when he married her). Good for him for thinking so, I say, but I've seen the wedding photos. Never let the facts stand in the way of a good story is something I can understand.

Fuck her, anyway. And fuck him, too.

That next job we worked together, he was less annoying than the first. Age and experience seemed to have mellowed him a little. I'm still surprised that he wasn't terribly mellow at the start, really, considering he had done a couple of tours in the Army before I'd ever met him. One would think that'd be enough to calm him, but I think it took some being-fired-from-a-job experiences to tone him down a bit.

He fell on some hard times before he fell out of my life. He got caught stealing from a small business, and that was right about the time things fell apart for him at home. He became distant, started avoiding my calls. Truly, I didn't mind so much, mostly because of the embezzlement. I'm still close to those business owners in a personal and professional sense, so it was hard to really be available and present for troubles he may have had, but I tried. He withdrew and then he disappeared.

The last time I talked to him was 2012.

The last time I saw him was the photograph for his obituary.

He was 46, and his end of watch came at the business end of a 45.

He pulled the trigger.

Fuck him, too, for not hitting River Street with us one more time so we could hear his stupid little laugh and listen to his stupid little jokes at our expense.

We grew apart. I don't regret that. We became different people heading in different directions.

What I do regret is not playing a walk on part in his war, because it seems he was living a lead role in his own cage.

Fuck you, man. I wish you were here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXdNnw99-Ic

It was the way the life faded from your eyes. They were reddened and inflamed, glistening like rubies that had fallen into the sea -- they were fixed on me until they drifted off into space, aimless and tired, and then there was the stillness, the silence. The tree outside your window cast a shadow over your body as though it were an omen for what was to come; you were a farm girl raised from the earthly soil and would return there without a fight. How peaceful you looked, how serene, content as though life were a mere process of sowing your impression upon our psyches and that, with your absence, we could all finally reap the benefits. On the day of your burial it began to rain. The dry, blind earth could not differentiate the rainwater from our tears.

The memories came flooding back and everything around me dissipated -- if these images were merely the residue of your physical existence then so be it, they were pure and they were beautiful. You spread yourself out like a fog and I felt you permeate through everything, absolutely everything, the changing leaves and birds soaring through the sky and, most of all, our daughter. Her eyes are crystalline and piercing just like yours.

We never fully understood each other, but I loved you all the same. Your impression left an impact on me and, in that sense, these mere after images aren't so different from when you were still here, breathing and sitting right next to me.

I look back and know there are things I should've done differently. I should've told you that I loved you more. I should've told you that I appreciated it when you tended the garden. I should've told you that your favorite sun tanned dress was gorgeous instead of tacky. I should've thanked you for looking after our daughter when I was tired from work. I should've done a lot of things. But all that is over now, and they are not the worries of those who are eternally slumbering -- please close your eyes and rest.

Death came to visit, an unrecognizable guise at my door

Intentionally, viscously crumbling my world to its core.

Spinning in perpetual haste, you then visualized in the air

To bid farewell, seek forgiveness, and mend our strife with repair.

Realization and understanding evaded, deigning to deceive

And in the skip of a silent heartbeat, you suddenly did leave.

Caught in a spiral of dismal, devastating distraction

Time was no friend and left a lingering depth of reaction.

Incessant reality broke forth in a parallel window of time

Overwhelming cacophony of loss and regret were completely all mine.

Never to be loosed, those chains will forever relentlessly bind.

Augie, sweet girl, lived with her olds nearby

the intersection of the two major

arteries that link up the tethered isle

with the metropolis; the bus would roar

through the strip mall where my mother’s gift shop

sat at the top of Petrarch Avenue,

pass the bowling club, then corner, and stop

to let you off before it would renew

its howling on the straight past the lighthouse,

then negotiate the decline toward

the old fishing village. I’m curious

as to how my journey might have played out

if I’d been with Augie, her strawberry

hair and her skin like milk; the signs were there

to get serious, what got in the way

it’s hard to recall; was she just too square

for my mercurial temperament? I

had an invitation to her house once;

I sat on the chintz sofa with the sky

staring through the window at my fingers

resting on my pantslegs while Augie’s dad

engaged me in pleasant conversation

and poured beer to enliven the arid

ensemble we made; there were complaisant

mutterings when I forgot to open

my mouth while tipping my glass, spilling beer

on my tie. I had been overtaken

either by a bad conscience or some queer

anticipation of intimacy;

things hovered in the room like poltergeists.

Had her father asked to meet me? Did she

think that our recent friendship might convert

itself suddenly to romance? That would

have put an unwarranted rationale

on our ties, which were never understood

so entirely as to want parental

consent. Thus my thoughts unfolded as we

got in the car and drove down to the golf

club by the sea (we were always by the sea)

where we ate lunch, our knees under the stiff

tablecloth; it might have been a buffet,

and though I spilt nothing else on myself

it’s like Augie had tucked herself away

just like a white napkin: folded up safe.

i have felt many things for you and

there have been so many words that i

have wanted to say

i could not

now i must live with the regret of never

having the strength to let them be known

there is a sense of grief that i have to live

with, the death of what could have been

and now will never be

i burned for you in silence and let

you wonder in the dark

i sit here in ruin, dreaming of you

while you lay there with her

she is better with words than i

To be or not to be

I know it’s not me

And I know I will never be

To be or not to be

it’s what I cannot see

My eyes fool me.

My feeling betrayed me

My heart hopes to see that he can be

to be or not, to be to see what you cannot see.

I will never be.

It’s not the way I choose

We never were close

to see what you can’t see

to have my heart key.

To be or not to be

I know it’s never me

I know I can’t be

I know it was never me

To be or not to be

I have always said that anger rises up inside of me like fire. It burns my heart first, and then my stomach, and then my throat. I'll say something I'll regret later.

But then sometimes, I say nothing at all. And that's what hurts the most.

I was the maid of honor. I was supposed to plan her bachelorette party.

Rewind to two months prior:

I am laying in bed, checking my phone periodically; it is 9PM on a Saturday night. I should be out with friends, or even just not in bed, when I get a text on Tinder from a guy I had just matched with.

He said, "Hey, I'm at ____ Bar downtown. Want to meet up?"

I usually would have said no. That's the thing! But I had just been dumped by another guy just a few weeks earlier, and had no new luck with dating.

So, rolling over in bed to respond on my phone, I said "Sure, see you there."

This guy, I'll call him William, was very drunk by the time I got to ___ Bar downtown. But it was adorable. He was hilarious. Maybe it was because he was a happy drunk, but it was clear he didn't give a f___ what anyone thought of him. He just - was. Who he was.

He complimented me on my sweater and we spent the next two months dating.

Here's where it gets messy. He didn't want to hang out with me on New Year's Eve, after two months of dating, which I thought was weird, and it definitely raised red flags. When he finally, after two weeks of not seeing each other, offered to meet me at a local coffee shop, I said yes. Of course I wanted to meet him. I liked him a lot. I wanted to keep dating him.

After sitting there for maybe twenty minutes, he said, "I've been seeing someone else. That night at ____ Bar downtown? I had just broken up with her. But now we're back together."

Then he said, "But you're a really nice girl."

I decided to act on anger in that moment. I made eye contact with him, not saying anything, refusing to break it, until he looked down, flustered, and mumbled something else.

Probably something about how I was "a nice girl."

I was furious.

Fast forward to two months after that. I am the maid of honor, trying to plan a bachelorette party for my friend.

It was a disaster.

I have never been good at planning anything, not really. I picked a grim little Airbnb, without any planned activities except going to a restaurant near the Airbnb, also a grim little place. But how was I to know that?

I was so, so angry. And when one of my friend's friends started talking about her perfect marriage after dinner, I lost it.

I let anger take over.

I walked out. Later, in therapy, I would talk about this moment, regretfully. But then my therapist went: "That's it ? I thought, from how regretful you seem, that you had thrown a wine bottle at her."

But I don't have that kind of anger.

I have the kind of anger that simmers. And as I listened to her talk about her perfect marriage, something in me cracked in half. I literally couldn't take it anymore. And since we weren't making eye contact, and I couldn't hold it until she looked away in shame, like with William, I simply reacted by walking out, not saying goodnight, not saying anything.

And so I went to bed like that.

My friend didn't talk to me for a year and a half after that night. I had ruined her bachelorette party. I had ruined it for her, for everyone, and for myself.

But of course, I can't blame men. I can't blame being dumped twice in three months. I have no one to blame but myself.

But dang, does anger rise up sometimes. And it hurts; that vomit in your throat that just turns sour and not even into words. It just sits there with unbreakable eye contact and hypothetical smashed wine bottles.

TW: Self-harm, SA.

I don't mean to hurt her, honest. Really, it's the nerves that make me act strangely. She's so unabashedly charming; it makes me so afraid of making a fool of myself that I do it inadvertently.

We met our junior year. I was sitting beside Mikey. Mike. I keep forgetting he wants to ditch the nickname. We had an assembly, but I can't remember what it was for. All I remember was the stress it caused me and others, I'm sure. As juniors, our biggest worry was preparing for college. My older brother got into the ivy leagues. He could be the valedictorian if he didn't have a penchant for parties. But even still, they are big shoes to fill.

I was focusing on the wood paneling of the auditorium when I saw her for the first time. She was with the cross-country girls. She'd always tell me she joined the team more to make friends and less to compete. But she was pretty good. She made the varsity cut at least. I thought her hair was red at first, but it must have been the lighting. Her hair sort of straddles a line between blonde and brown.

"Mike, who is that girl?" I leaned towards him and pointed towards her.

He squinted. I never knew why they kept the lights so dim in there before the assembly even began. "That's Amelia. She has chem with me. She's from Virginia."

I sought her out after the assembly let out. I thought I'd lost her, but I caught up with her in the hallway. "Hey, it's Amelia, right?"

She looked as if I'd asked her to strip in the middle of the hallway. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes got wide. But she did answer. "That's me." Even her voice was pretty.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!" I laughed, hoping I played it off well. "I just saw you in the auditorium and thought you were really pretty."

She tilted her head to the side with a little smile, "Oh, well thank you. What's your name?" I could tell she was from Virginia. It wasn't overt, but there was a twinge of a southern accent in the way she spoke.

"Daniel," I said. And I regret it now, but I stuck my hand out to shake hers. She took my hand firmly. I didn't think about it until after, but that may have been the weakest handshake I've given in my life. "This might seem abrupt, but would you like to go out with me sometime?" My brother told me that being forward was the best method, but I could tell I caught her off guard again.

"Sorry, but we just met," she said with a little laugh. It wasn't mean, but I was still a little hurt. I think she could read it on my face, because she was quick to add to her previous statement. "I would, but my daddy wouldn't let me. Because, you know, you're a boy." The left side of her mouth quirked up a little as if she and I were sharing some private joke.

The warning bell rang, and we went our separate ways. Maybe I took it the wrong way, but I found it unfair to her that her father wasn't letting her date; she was a junior!

Looking back on it all, she spent a lot of time apologizing about her dad. He didn't let her do anything, especially not with a guy. He was the old school Christian type who valued their daughter's virtue in a borderline creepy way.

Eventually, after bumping into each other a few times in the hall, she agreed to meet with me to go for a jog around the campus of a local college on a Saturday afternoon. She hadn't told her dad.

A jog was not my idea of a good first date, but to get out of the house without suspicion, she said we were out of other options. I like to run a little bit. I'd go a few times a week, so I wasn't too worried about it.

She showed up in a light blue jacket and leggings, something I'd never seen her wear before. They were flattering. "Daniel!" She waved. Even though I'd already seen her, I waved back and jogged over as if I had just spotted her.

"Good to see you!" I grinned. Tentatively, I stepped forward to give her a hug and, to my delight, she let me. It was an awkward side hug, but I would take it.

We ran slowly around the campus. She said she only wanted to get to five miles. It was getting cold, and the fog had begun to seep through the trees and over the pathways.

She told me all about Virginia. She had a tomboyish disposition, but a girly face and voice. It was the perfect combination.

I convinced her to get ice cream with me from the local shop, Cal's, despite the cold. She agreed but only because it was on the way to her house. She let me drive her there even though the walk would have taken maybe five minutes. I had an old Toyota, but it ran pretty well. Well enough.

It squeaked when I rolled to a stop at a traffic light. "I'm taking it in to fix that noise," I apologized. It was hardly impressive.

"You just need new brake pads," she chuckled.

I turned to her with a little bewilderment, "that's what the mechanic told me. I'm waiting until he gets the new pads in. How did you know that?"

"I try to know a little bit about everything," Amelia confessed with a shrug. Her cheeks were turning pink.

We got ice cream. I always order butter pecan, but when she saw the flavor on the menu, she wrinkled her nose. "I hate butter pecan. It doesn't taste like either of those flavors."

I didn't tell her I liked the flavor. I ordered black cherry instead. We sat in my car for a few minutes. The parlor was a little too crowded and it was too chilly to sit outside. I told her that I played violin. Her eyes lit up. She didn't play it, but she played the piano and the flute. “I find the violin such a romantic instrument.” She laughed.

For a first date, it began a little unconventionally I suppose, but it turned out well.

Amelia told me she loves listening to music, so I gave her the aux cord and asked her to play some songs. She pulled up some little-known artist. Jonathan something, I think his name was. And to my delight, she even sang along. I adored her voice when she spoke, but when she sang it was near ethereal. If I didn’t want to date her before, I sure did now.

“Can I kiss you?” I blurted before I could think better of it. We were sweaty from the jog and my lips were completely chapped from the wind, but I couldn’t have imagined a better time.

I expected another rejection, but she didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and let me do the rest.

Of course, her dad found out about our date. She avoided me at school the next week. Even my texts went unanswered. Our school had a zero-phone policy, so I didn’t know if her dad had taken it or not, and I only caught a glance of her before she’d disappear into the crowd.

It made me worried. I hoped I hadn’t gotten her into serious trouble, but did she really have to avoid me at school? We kissed. Did she not want to talk about it? Had she hated it?

She texted me on Saturday. She’d told her dad about the date. Her dad wanted to talk to me.

I tried to joke. Do I need to ask permission to date you? I thought it was funny. But no more than a couple minutes later, she sent back one word: Yes.

We made arrangements for the following day. Amelia met me at the door and gave me a hug. “Thanks for doing this. My dad is a little overprotective.”

I met her two younger brothers and her little sister. Her mom was sweet too. Her dad smiled, but I could tell that it was only for Amelia’s benefit. He was an intimidating guy. I think he knew it. He stood at almost six and a half feet tall and wore an old T-shirt from his days in the military. He had a buzz cut and a couple scars on his face.

He invited me into his study. Amelia was not allowed to join us. He gave me the typical speech about how Amelia was his daughter and that I’d need to treat her well. He asked about my faith. I answered honestly. My parents were Catholics, but I was still exploring my options. Agnostic. He didn’t like that answer. He wanted Amelia to date a Christian man. But eventually he said I could take Amelia on dates as long as she was back by 11 pm. 9 pm on school nights.

Amelia and I spent every moment her dad allowed us to. I started to wait for her after her cross-country practice. She even began to come to my house after school to do homework with me. I guess that’s where things went wrong.

She was alright with hugs, but she didn’t let me kiss her often. Especially not at her own house. She was always looking over her shoulder for her dad. But even at my house, they were always the lightest kisses.

We sat on the floor of my basement on the beige rug my parents had just put in. She was kicking my butt in a card game, and I leaned over and kissed her. She giggled.

“You always laugh when we kiss. Does it tickle or something?” I smiled at her. I loved when her face flushed. The bridge of her nose, her cheeks and her ears all turned hot pink.

“It tickles a little,” she said, tracing her finger through the grooves of the corduroy couch she leaned on.

“You can kiss me harder,” I said, stumbling over my words a little. I scooted over to sit next to her.

She obliged and put a little more pressure against my lips.

“Open your mouth a little,” I said with a laugh.

“N—no!” She laughed. But it was a nervous laugh.

I sat back. I couldn’t hide the frown. A hug always stayed a hug. A little kiss always stayed a little kiss with her. “Amelia, we’ve been dating for months now. I thought you’d be a little more comfortable around me.”

She shrugged, sensing the change. “It’s just that my dad—”

“Enough about your dad.” It was probably more forceful than it needed to be. “I don’t care what he wants. What do you want?”

She was quiet, looking at her hands. “I want to be a normal teenager.”

She let me kiss her hard. She let me put my hands under her clothes. I didn’t realize she was crying until I had two fingers on the button of her jeans.

“Please stop, Daniel.” She whispered.

I stopped. But it happened again and again. She’d kiss me. I tried to let it be enough for me. But I wanted more. It always made her cry.

In December of our senior year, she took half a bottle of acetaminophen. Her mom called the ambulance in time to save her. We broke up a month later.

She’s married now to a man her dad handpicked for her. She’s even got two kids.

My biggest regret is not saving her. I could have shown her that she had the right to choose her own path, but I hurt her. And I never said I was sorry.