I call it “the incident” when I have to speak of it.

Usually I do not speak of it outside the therapist’s office

or when I talk to Mrs. Erickson.

There is no manual for how to answer the questions that arise.

There is no one response to expect from everyone.

This is not the kind of situation that brings clarity.

Blame it on the anxiety.

Blame it on the depression. 

Blame it on the meds 

supposed to cure the anxiety and depression.  

Blame it on me. 

Everyone is looking to hold something or someone accountable. 

At first the incident was kept under wraps.

Then, like a kid under the Christmas tree

stories came bursting forth. 

I heard my own story

repeated back in fragments and half-truths. 

I didn’t bother to correct it.

Instead I wrote poems I did not have the capacity to understand

and shared them with people who didn’t deserve to receive them. 

The incident left me with an ugly reminder

etched into my skin

running down the side of my arm.

And every time my scar is touched it hurts

like bad memories

and nerves coming back to life. 

It feels like countless hours in front of doctors and therapists

and it tastes like ingested shame. 

Everyone called me brave and strong for trying to get better

but it should really be me returning the compliment

to my loved ones

because it takes courage

to not tolerate someone’s self-destruction. 

Perhaps gratitude sounds a lot like bravery and strength.

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