where do you stop, where do I begin?

Because I feel like I may never know.

It is one big whirlwind I clump together in my life experience. How does one begin to process the brainfuckery? How long do I support you up on your pedestal because you’re dying? It’s not like I’d like to throw you off of it, I’d just like to step onto my own here sometime soon.

I’m sure it’s all been hazy for you, too. After all, you don’t know how much I know. You don’t know every secret or story I’ve been told, have figured out, or hold onto. Everything between us is a lie, so where do we start to unravel it all?

Do we start from back when I was conceived? Age 5? 10? Fast forward to 18? I really don’t think about it that much, because there is nothing to do with it. We could go over and try to process every disturbing thing together, but you don’t remember what happened because you have a mental illness you won’t acknowledge. Your head twists it into something different so you’re able to survive, so it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry, I know what that experience is like, you’ve taught me it well, how to twist traumatic memories so they don’t hurt you. It’s effective. I’ve mastered it, and it made me as sick as it made you. Now, I’m working to be honest. I am healing.

The stories don’t really matter anymore, but the feelings do. I could tell the stories a thousand different ways, tell them how you told them, tell them how they told them, tell them how I remember them, but we’re still tied in this circle of pain and confusion that I am looking to release somehow, not being able to process it with you, or really anyone. I ask further where you stop and I begin.

The last time I saw you, you cornered me back in a room, your insecurities eating you alive. I watched you, frozen in fear, wondering what you would do or say this time.

“IT’S YOUR FAULT THAT WE’RE NOT CLOSE ANYMORE.” You yelled at me, your face red, your eyes wide, and I took it, scared of your chemical imbalance. I nodded.

“I know,” I whispered.

“ANYTHING YOU’VE HEARD ISN’T TRUE. JUST CALL ME, ALRIGHT? IF YOU CALLED ME, WE WOULDN’T HAVE THIS PROBLEM.”

“Okay.” I said quietly.

“TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG, YOU’RE NOT TELLING ME SOMETHING. WHAT? TELL ME WHAT IT IS.”

My mind flashes to all of the intense moments in an instant. All of them ones I can’t say, because if I did, you’d say they never happened.

“There’s nothing wrong,” I gulp, “I’m just feeling tired. I’m sorry I haven’t called you.” You walk up to hug me, and I am caught off guard in your arms. Everything in me is crying, but I can’t show it. You walk out of the house. I keep it together. I shut the bedroom door and drop to the floor sobbing.

I tiptoe around, hoping you continue to forget me. I tiptoe around, wondering when you die.

I don’t want to keep your secrets anymore. They are making me sick, like they make you. I live thousands of miles away, to feel safe.

I used to think lying was what you had to do to survive, but now I know that it is the only thing keeping me from feeling alive.

I wish you would tell the truth, too. But it’s probably too late. I think the web of lies you’ve woven has eaten your insides.

You say you’re nearly dead. I watch the clock tick, get your drunk 2am texts, and answer the phone calls from ones who still know what you’re up to.

I wonder when your heart will stop, and if that’s when mine will begin.