“There was a time, almost a year ago now but still, that I really genuinely thought that I would die for you given the chance. I’m still not sure you even cared about me. I’m still not sure I even really loved you.” – Bry LeBerthon

You. Never Me.

Fiction. Based on a true submission.

By Viviany Alicea

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.

I would have risked my life if it meant having you.

I would sneak out of my house against my parents’ wrath.
They disliked you aggressively, but that never stopped me.
I would tiptoe out of my room, so quietly open the front door and run out to you.
You would kiss me, and it didn’t matter that I was probably going to be punished for years if they caught me, none of that mattered.
I would have forgotten every family member for you.
I almost did, remember?

I would drive late at night, around 3am, when the streets were empty and the fog would overtake my view but I still drove as fast as possible without hesitation.
Because you needed me, you had called begging me to see you, and I so easily complied. Even when my parents threatened to never let me in my house again. Even when my parents threatened to not pay my tuition anymore.
I still went to you.

I would skip classes to get just five minutes with you.
The day you visited me on campus, I had an important lecture, but it wasn’t as important as getting to kiss you.
I had agreed to go out with my friends, so they could meet you, but you weren’t in the mood to share me.
You wanted me all to yourself. I wanted you all to myself.

You wanted to drink that night.
We got blacked out drunk because it was your idea of fun.
I wanted you to have fun, whatever fun you meant.
You wanted to drink? I drank.
You wanted to smoke? I smoked.
You wanted to drive up north and leave our life behind? I drove.
We never really left, though. You got scared.

But I wasn’t. I left.

I asked you, time and time again, to come with me.
You always said you couldn’t.
I asked why.
You never really had an answer.

The control you had over me was . . . I cannot explain it.
There are no words to describe the submission I had with you.
Because I literally wanted to please your every desire.
I pleased every desire.

But you never pleased mine.

Every single one of my friends told me you were selfish.
I never believed them, I still don’t believe it.
I was blinded by what I thought was love.

I kept getting drunk because of you.
I wanted to erase every single kiss from my mouth with the strongest alcohol.
It never seemed to work, and a couple of intoxications later,
I realized I could never erase you.

You were sewed into my skin.
And you have no idea how much I cut and cut so that the thread would let go.
But you never seemed to go.

You kept coming, appearing, needing.
And I never knew how I could choose between you and me.

Because it was always you, right?

But it was never me.

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