March 2006

It was four months after he died, he killed himself.  It was the first time I got away from it all, away from town, away from church, away from my parents and my friends. I needed it. But I was broken. I had been dropped and at home I was forced to hold myself together. I was the glue for my friends, my family. I never intended to, but I hid it all. 

Haunted by death and suicide and desertion.  

I sat on the steps at the camp in the mountains and cried. I went to bed at night crying and woke up with swollen eyes. I cried at every meeting and while I worked. 

I was gone for only two days but the emotional exhaustion I suffered was enough to put me in bed for hours on end. I slept and cried and missed camp, and i hated camp.

Home was my bed and thats it. My parents had moved us into a new house while I was gone, a house that wasn’t mine. I just layed in my bed. 

That was the point I knew that I needed help. Something was not right. Something inside me was falling at a rate that no one could catch it and when it dropped I would be shattered. 

 

I was broken

 

I needed to be lifted up

I needed wings

to fly.