Psyche is powered by Vocal creators. You support Faith Zielinski by reading, sharing and tipping stories... more

Psyche is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.

How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.

How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.

To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.

Show less

I Remember You

Suicide Awareness

I remember you,

The way your face would light up at something that made you excited, the way you closed your eyes and swayed your hips to the music, taking in the joy and the carelessness of life.

I remember your soft laugh at the things you thought were funny. Sometimes it was just you laughing, but hey, when something is amusing, even if you were the only one that thought so, you laughed at it, and you were always glad you did.

I remember you, the day you thought that he was in love with you, and how you skipped around the room, practically stumbling over your own two feet as you laughed and tried to catch your breath.

I remember your hopefulness as you went to go talk to him, hoping to score a date with him.

I remember you at the highest points in your life, as you passed your classes and got scholarships for college, and even a promotion at work. Life was going so well.

But, there was always something, something there beneath the surface that was almost unnoticeable.

I remember your happy smile and your saddened eyes as you tried to cover up that something was wrong.

I remember your deep sighs as you tried to cope with your burdened heart, not wanting to break.

I remember you, being asked out by the captain of the Football team and how you were so excited because you thought that for once, things could work out in your favor.

I remember your expression when he kissed you after the first, no second, no third date, How for a small moment, everything seemed to be great and your suffering was reduced to a bare minimum, to the point it was barely noticeable. No, it was still there. But you were fighting it hardcore, telling yourself that life was great and that you were dating a football captain, and how could anything get better than what you’ve been blessed with?

I remember you as you started to struggle with stress and hardships, your grades beginning to plummet, but how you tried, oh, how you tried so hard to keep them up. But you were mentally exhausted at this point, and losing focus.

I remember your expression after the fourth date with him, when word got back to you that he told everyone that you had sex with him at his place, and how you just couldn’t keep your pants up, even though you knew you never slept with him, let alone stepped foot into his bedroom or even his house.

I remember you as you fought to clear up your name, but nobody believed you. Oh no, why would anyone want to believe you? You’re just the smart girl who loved books and chick-flicks, and daydreamed about possibilities of the future. You were the artist, the singer, the dancer, but not the popular one. Of course, they believed him. He was the hotshot, the one that everyone was in love with. The one who could do no wrong. Of course, they believed him.

I remember the way your face fell as people in the hallway passing you called you a whore. How that broke you more.

I remember you as you tried to ignore the hurtful namecalling, the harassment, and the toxic atmosphere that surrounded you as people watched you pass by.

I remember the way you’d lose sleep at night, too scared, too numb, too broken to get up in the morning. But you needed to be the golden child in your family. The one that was always expected to be the best at everything because you were smart, but this was taking a toll on your sanity. You didn’t think you could talk to your parents about this... They never went through this. They didn’t suffer from depression, so they wouldn’t understand. They’d tell you to snap out of it. You knew them like you knew the back of your hand. You knew what they’d say.

I remember you crying yourself to sleep at night, beginning to pray that you’d never wake up.

I remember the scratches and scars that developed on your arms, and how you said that your dog scratched you while playing, and then giving a nonchalant shrug to the matter. You didn’t have a dog.

I remember you trying to hide your pain, even though you were screaming for help, and somehow, I missed that signal.

I remember your silence filling the room, as you went about your day, seeming to be completely untouched at the struggles you had been facing.

I remember your laugh as it filled the room once more, all of your problems seeming to be over. There was peace in your eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

But then…

I remember your eyes full of numbness as you stared at me when you were leaping over the banister.

I remember you falling, and I tried to catch onto you.

I remember a blur as ambulances and police officers came rushing to the scene, trying to stabilize you, trying to save you. You didn’t want to be saved.

I remember the empty chair in class, the office cleaning out your books from your locker, your sobbing mother, as she took your personal belongings home, most likely to be stored away in a box somewhere. She was wondering how she missed the signs.

And somehow, I remember thinking how I didn’t see the signs to begin with.

I remember my therapy sessions, trying to snap me out of the tragedy that I had witnessed.

I remember countless nights I woke up, choking on sobs, screaming out your name, wishing it was all a bad dream.

I still do this.

The worst part is that this is all my reality.

So please, keep your eyes open at all costs, because the person that could be contemplating suicide could be the person sitting right next to you.

Now Reading
I Remember You
Read Next
10 Signs Someone Is Hiding a Mental Illness