Don't Leave Me

Have you ever felt such an immense pain in your heart and mind that you thought anything would be better than going through such suffering? That any kind of physical torture and even death would look like a scratch compared to the despair and destruction your own thoughts and feelings could cause? Or that you were completely and utterly alone in the world, that you had problems you'd love to unlock from deep inside yourself and bear your soul to anyone who'd listen, but that it wasn't possible?

No one could understand what you were going through; no one could hear you out without thinking differently of you or judging you. No one could know what really went on in your head without you losing the one thing that meant most to you, the one thing that caused all of this in the first place.

I have; I know the feeling oh so clearly.

It started about two months ago, when a new sudden realization hit me. You and I were in my bedroom; you sitting on the floor and I spread out on my bed in an unusual position that was oddly comfortable. I was quickly writing down lyrics to a song that had just come to me while you stared at the ceiling. Well, more accurately, the ceiling fan, looking like you were trying to keep your eyes on a certain fan blade as it spun in rapid circles. After putting away my pen and paper, I glanced at you, you just sitting there peacefully, silently staring upwards.

I think that's when I saw it, something different. You were no longer the same Mike, the same best friend I'd known for over five years. I just couldn't put my finger on it and only kept my eyes fixed on you in admiration trying to figure it out.

It took about a week to realize what was different, and it wasn't you.

It was my vision, or perhaps my perception of you. I told myself it wasn't true over and over trying to convince myself. I didn't like you that way. It was wrong, so sick and wrong. You were my best friend; you shouldn't have this affect on me. For about two weeks, I was in denial. I was considerably quieter than usual, and you wondered what was wrong. I simply told you I had a lot on my mind and I couldn't tell you what. Reluctantly, you accepted such an answer.

Then, I gave in and let myself think I did like you. No, I loved you. And I don't mean physically or sexually; it has nothing to do with that. I've always loved you; you're my best friend. But I was in love with you. And let me tell you, those are two completely different things. I wasn't as withdrawn after I accepted it, at least not towards you or in any obvious manner. No, I'd rather keep it all in and let the pain eat away at me while I tried to hide it. I even wrote countless songs to somehow put my feelings into words.

I'm not sure why it killed me inside so much to love you, but I couldn't take a chance of you finding out. It wasn't like you were against homosexuality or anything. I don't know. It'd be one thing to tell you that I'm gay or bisexual or something. It's a total different thing to say, "Hey Mike. I'm in love with you." I just knew you'd hate me. And if by some strange miracle you didn't, I knew you'd never look at me the same, that we'd never be the same best friends. I could never grasp that or imagine anything happening to alter our friendship. And I certainly couldn't lose you. I'd do anything not to lose you; you're all I have. I'd die, either literally or at least on the inside. You're everything to me, and I love you.

So, I became even more of a masochistic freak than I already was. I was always thinking of you, and it hurt so much to think of what could happen. I resorted to hurting myself in one way or another to ease the pain in my heart. Anyone who said physical pain was worse than emotional pain was horribly, horribly wrong and should be tied up, gagged, and tortured for seven days before being given a slow, painful death.

Okay, maybe not that harsh, but close to it.

Anyway, I had only cut myself not even a handful of times, never going too deep, and they healed pretty quickly. I try to spare myself scars and blood by biting my fingers and usually it helped though I drew blood a few times. I never told you, what would you think if you knew you caused me to hurt myself? Of course, it isn't you; it's me that's the sick one.

I've wanted to die on many occasions, knowing full well I'd never actually act on such urges, but only playing with the idea. Just as I would think that nothing but that could end my pain and suffering, you're in my thoughts once again. Actually, you never leave, and if you did, I might not be here right now. Suicide can be so tempting at such times, but I'd never do that to you. I'd never put you through such grief of having you clean up my mess. It'd kill me, even if I were already dead, to know I'd hurt you in any way. If you were anyone else, maybe. But you're not. You're Mike and I'd do anything for you. And yes, I mean anything. If you said to go jump off a bridge, would I do it? In a heart beat, if I knew you really wanted me to. I'm in love with you.

I kept it hidden pretty well for weeks which eventually turned into a month, then two. You never knew what was really going on in my head or that I was falling apart with every smile you cracked and every word you uttered. That I'd go home and cry myself to sleep because the pain was unbearable, hating myself for loving you. I mean, it was my fault, right?

But I knew it wasn't. No one means to fall in love. It just happens. And as much as I wished it would just disappear, my heart burned for you. But then I withdrew myself more, going into a state of depression worse than I'd ever experienced. I only blamed myself. For everything, the love, the hate, the rage, everything. I stopped talking to you almost altogether and excluded myself from any outings, only leaving my room when I had to.

This time you noticed.

You asked me repeatedly every day what was wrong, backing off when I wouldn't give an answer; my silence killing you. Then today, you caught sight of a scar on my arm. Upon further inspection, once you’d grabbed my wrists, you noticed more fresh cuts. And you couldn't take it anymore. You demanded to know what was going on. You said you wouldn't take nothing as an answer anymore.

"Why would you cut yourself? Why would you do that?" you asked me, hurt and anger in your voice.

"It h-hurts so much," I said, my words already beginning to shake. You weren't supposed to find out. This was horribly wrong.

"What hurts?"

"Everything!" I screamed.

"Billie, tell me what's wrong! You've been acting different and now this! What's wrong?" you shouted back at me. We were around the side of the main building, and I was backed into a brick wall, as if to tell me that I wasn't getting away till you knew why I was acting the way I was.

"I-I can't tell you..." I told you. I knew it wouldn't be enough, that it wasn't what you were looking for. But I had to stall it. I still didn't want to imagine actually telling you.

"Why not? Why can't you tell me, Billie? You can tell me anything!" you said, clearly annoyed and confused. Tears that had welled up in my eyes began to pour over. I had tried to blink them back, but you noticed, making all anger flood from your features, your face now filled with concern.

"You'll hate me!" I told you, wanting so much to disappear conveniently.

"Why would I hate you? Please, tell me what's wrong, Billie. Maybe I can help you. Please, tell me so I can help!" you begged, your voice breaking as you cried tears of your own. You just didn't know how effective it really was; I couldn't stand you being in such pain. Especially not because of me. "Why would I ever hate you?"

"I'm in love with you!" I shouted at you. It took a few seconds and a shocked expression from you to realize that I'd said that out loud. I ran as fast as I could away from there. Away from you. Away from everything.

There was no where for me to go really except home, so that's what I did. Mom would be at work so I could wallow in my misery alone without any more questions. I knew you wouldn't follow me, for my confession was beyond any of your expectations and I was sure of it. I did know, however, that eventually I'd have to face you again. I just wanted to delay it as much as possible. I knew I'd ruined everything; I just needed confirmation from you.

I've always been one to hide my feelings. But I couldn't help crying when I dropped onto my bed once I was home. I don't think I'd cried that hard since my dad died five years ago. The same year I met you. I certainly didn't expect you to walk into my room as I sat sobbing, my knees pulled to my chest and my arms around them. I didn't even hear you come in, but there you were, in front of me, your expression unreadable. I only buried my head in my knees and cried harder.

Here was the moment when my life would be ripped apart. I could take anything, yells, a strike, even death, but not you hating me. And without realizing it, I told you that with my mantra-like chants.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Please don't hate me. I wanna die! I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry! Please don't hate me. Anything but that. Don't hate me. Don't hate me. I didn't mean to. Don't hate me...." over and over again I repeated in different combinations as tears fell continuously.

I barely noticed when the bed sunk around me. I looked up, my vision blurred, to get lost in your blue eyes staring back at me. You placed your hands on my face and pulled me to you. As soon as your lips touched mine, my body shuttered violently. I put my arms around your neck and kissed you back, tears silently making their way down my cheeks again. You brushed your tongue over my lower lip and I hesitantly opened up to you. When you broke away, you looked into my eyes and I melted.

Your next words were simple and everything I needed to hear.

"I could never hate you."