i’d forgotten the words within me

i’m so sorry i forgot you

I had big plans for this break . . . plans I knew I wouldn’t complete, but plans nonetheless. But now that my break from school is over, I’m quite perturbed. Two days ago I decided to start reading/editing my book Memory Jumper again.

Now, this book is my soul. It has captured my heart irrevocably. And every time I read it, I can’t help but think someone needs this book. (Maybe it’s me.)

This book is so passionate. It’s about mental abuse, suicide, and choosing to keep going even when it feels there is no one on your side. It’s about being really, truly, wholly free, despite tragedy or wrong. Today was the first day of school and, surprisingly, my senior load looks . . . simple? I’m still suspicious, but I had a thought today:

God, could you be giving me the gift of time to work on my book?

I only pray I don’t misuse this time.

Here’s a bit of what I just wrote. As the book goes on, the girl moves from sarcastic humor to negativity to depression to suicidal thoughts. It’s so dark sometimes, I can’t believe I wrote it; but I’m a Christian so buried in there will be hope. My book will give hope to those who are so close to giving up but are holding on because of a tiny bit of passion left for the life they once loved.


A peek at the book I desperately hope I am self-controlled enough to finish

The house is still. I try to breathe while staying completely still. The darkness is a welcome friend, even the void more welcoming than Fawn’s presence and the disaster she brings with her.

I will stay here forever, I decide childishly. I will lay here under the covers for the rest of eternity. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll absorb into the sheets. When I wake up, I’ll just be a set of holey sheets.

Fawn would know. She just would. She’d ball me up and throw me into the washer until I drowned. She would never relinquish her control of me, inanimate object or not.

Maybe I could smother myself.

I pull the sheets closer; they smell like nothing. I have no fragrance, no presence. I’m a ghost. The sheets caress my face. They’re not as smooth as I would’ve thought. I press them to my nose but automatically hold my breath.

I let go with a whoosh. Forget this. I’m not even brave enough to give up.

Published by Amanda Brown

22-year-old INFP who names inanimate objects, loves to laugh, and is a proud old soul. You can often find her planning out her next crazy project, hugging books, or telling stories about her day that *may* be a little exaggerated.

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