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.

Have they spent all these years hiding from me? Or have I spent all these years hiding from them? I don’t even feel I’ve been lying to them. I just created so much distance that no one could ever ask me the truth.

I cried because I am starting to realize that to love someone, to really love them deeply, is to want them to be family.

I’m actually beginning to believe that you and I aren’t the problem here, Ez, no matter what Mom and Darren say. Funny how you can believe things about yourself if someone tells you enough. They are the problem.

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.

You’ve got a heart. And it’s been hurt. And you’d rather hurt someone else than have them hurt you, but then you’re only hurting yourself.”

It’s wonderful when someone else sees you, the real you, but—and this may be the most profound thing I’ve ever thought or said—maybe the important thing is seeing yourself.

It’s easy to start seeing yourself as others do, to believe the reflection they paint for you, but for the first time ever I’m looking at myself.