It was New Years Eve. The first time I was celebrating with my friends and not my family and the start of what became a pattern of horrible New Years celebrations in the years to come.

I cried that night in the bathroom about what I said was romantic heartache. The facade I would later use to hide behind every time my heart started to bleed. When the deeper wounds I wanted to cover up would begin to leak out.

I was crying that night about the abuse and the misuse. The hurricane I was born into. Forever trying to repair. Always taking ownership for the storms I did not create.

Feeling left behind by him that night after giving everything I had. After trusting in a brighter future than the past of my parents. Feeling left behind by him but more so by everyone before him.

I cried about everyone and everything before him and hoped that nobody would see what the tears were truly for. Hoped that the drunken wails for help and truths spilled out through vodka soaked lips could be brushed off as another teenage drama. Naïve heartbreak.

After I was told to seek help by someone I barely knew I tired desperately to block the light that night shed on the pain in my heart, born of my home. To burry the past that made me. And for years to come I would hope desperately that nobody would look hard enough to see past the facade.

After all, it was just a breakup, right?

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