I was four when it happened. Locked in the bathroom, hugging and sobbing together while the police were outside trying to keep my parents from not being in the same room together. At the time, not knowing what it was going to be like in the future. Not knowing at four years old what was going to happen.

I was twelve when it happened. Locked in my bedroom alone, writing and crying alone while my parents were outside debating if I should be left alone. At the time, not knowing how I was going to get through this alone. Not knowing at twelve years old if I was going to make it to eighteen.

I was fifteen when it happened. In a therapist’s office alone, talking and wondering alone while my mother was outside waiting to see if she needed to let me get better alone. At the time, not knowing if I was going to keep sobbing alone. Not knowing at fifteen years old if I was ever going to be happy.

I was seventeen when it happened. In a classroom together, learning and yelling together, wondering what it was like to make a difference together, if we could transcend together. At the time, knowing that we are young together. That we would make a difference together.

I was eighteen when it happened. Walking down the gym floor alone, receiving my diploma alone, knowing alone. At the time, knowing that I made it, but not alone. I made it together, not whole but still alive. Not whole, but happy with a lot of work still left to go.