Bree Johnson

So there I was: behind the couch, crouching in the closet, underneath the bed--not wanting to give up and come out of my hiding spot just yet--because maybe he’s still looking. But maybe he’s wandered off…

Maybe he went downstairs to finish eating the rest of the Cheetos.

But I waited. I waited until I forgot that I was waiting, until I forgot that there was anything more to me beyond stillness and quiet, and it didn’t matter anymore whether or not my brother came for me. The hiding was enough.

(You see, you win a game of hide and seek when no one finds you. Even if they aren’t looking.)

Eventually, though, I came out from hiding, and when I did it, it was because I wanted to. I broke myself out of my own trance and pushed open the door without a teacher’s hand on my shoulder.

I emerged from my silence and came back into myself like I was breaking the surface of the water that I was drowning in. At first, my breathing was sharp and unsteady and I struggled to take my next breath. Every other inhale was interrupted by me sputtering out the water that had seeped into my lungs when I was still beneath. My throat was sore from coughing and my lungs felt damp and maybe I didn’t breathe as easily as I did before, but I was free from the way I used to live: empty, aimless, drifting away and further and further below.

I had finally come out of hiding. I had rewritten the game and decided it was time to play it by my own rules.

Ready or not, here I come, I call out. To myself, to my peers, to the world.

Here I come, ready or not.

These Four Walls

Bree Johnson

The four walls of my bedroom kept secrets that nobody would ever discover about me. They saw the way depression and I danced around each other. Tip-toeing throughout my bedroom, trying to avoid one another. They see the way insomnia takes up half my bed, and they see the way anxiety and I swoon to a song only we hear. They also saw the way I held the remedy to my pain in my hand. The lifeless bottle sat speaking a million words to me, and whispering a thousand lies. I had always kept it hidden away, knowing there was a way out was the most comforting thought of all. The weight of the decision made the bottle so much heavier than I imagined it would be. They told me to follow my dreams, but what if I only had nightmares.

The ultimate feeling of insanity was astronomical. The emotions of loneliness and loss was something I felt like I had to face alone. I didn’t know how to tell people about the battles I would walk into without armor. The bombs that would be dropped on me without warning. The way I would fall down, bruised and damaged. I would think I was getting better, but then I fell apart again. My heart shattered everywhere, and I didn’t know how to put the pieces back together. The numbness I felt after taking the drugs was overwhelming. I gulped up all my emotions until I felt sick, and just let myself drift away.

My four walls saw the way my mom barged into my room, panic and despair written on her face. They saw my puzzled and drugged face. I saw what a blur my life had become. A beautiful mess that I slept in day and night. I saw the loveliness of my cracked walls, and the beauty of the stains on my carpet. I saw the rush of buildings as I was dragged to the hospital. I heard the nurse’s questions. I saw her write things down. I thought how could she write down something that I couldn't even process? How can she put into words my emotions, when I don’t even know what my emotions are?

The hospital walls saw the way doctors handled me like a fragile china doll. Cautiously touching my stomach, and whispering questions to me. They hooked me up to machines to monitor my heart, but how could they monitor something so broken? They pumped me full of liquids, but how come they couldn’t pump me full of hope? The next morning I woke up,