Every time I was hurt growing up, I always tried even harder after, to make up for it, to be stronger when the truth is I got weaker, I thought keeping it all inside was the big and strong thing to do, that's what being a man meant right? To be stable and rational?

Telling people what I'd seen and what had happened wouldn't be stable, that wouldn't be rational right? Burdening others with problems as small as mine would be weak and if I was weak then I'd be hurt again, I didn't want to be hurt again

So I didn't, but the less I spoke the less I could speak, a shroud constricting my soul, a knot tighter than the grip of my will, so in the end, how could I speak, how could I tell others of my torment when the very act of sharing was a torment of its own

It became like the way out for those words sealed over and the very thought of them hurt, I'd wake in cold sweats, id cry even when I wasn't sad, i started cutting deep, taking drugs, attempting suicide.

All of those extremes because somehow they were easier than the simple act of saying what had happened to me, what I had been made to do.

Now I'm sitting here with my health catching up with me, but at least it tried right? I tried to be a man