Take Me with You When You Go

by David Levithan

Blood is thicker than water, I suppose. It can also leave a much crueler stain.

You can say things over and over to yourself, but the moment you say them out loud to someone else, they become something different, like you’re taking a fear and giving it a solid shape so it can actually hurt you. And when someone else says the things you’re saying in your head—that has the same effect. It should feel better to be sharing it, but it also makes it less deniable.

I

try not to listen to it, but when someone tells you those things enough, you can’t help it. Because if they speak loud enough and often enough, that’s the only voice you’re able to hear.

If anything goes wrong at home, you can’t tell anyone outside of home. Pity is worse than pain, embarrassment is worse than help. If people treat you like shit, you still have to stay loyal to them. You still have to give them the benefit of the doubt that maybe you are, in fact, shit and deserve to be treated the way they treat you.

We thought there was a wall around our story. But what if there were windows?

If you’re used to people being shitty, it’s hard to accept niceness. Your instinct is to fuck it up. And run the hell away.

Whenever you’re in the worst place, there is always a better place. Your abuser will try to hide it from you, but other people can help you get there.