"What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that, as sighs and cries pass over them, they sound like beautiful music."

—Soren Kierkegaard

The words flowed from my lips like lava, scorching on my tongue and insuppressible. Everything I couldn't find the courage to tell Laina, or my mom, came gushing from my mouth, between sharp breaths and sniffling.

Each completed sentence was a weighty, weary hardship lifted from my chest and thrown into the open air. I had just met this boy, and somehow my faith in him was a certain conviction. Every insurmountable misery was becoming a shared burden, and with his hands, suddenly, I felt I could carry my portion.

The more I talked, the more that spilled from me. I told Julian nearly everything, from Caleb's manipulation and infidelity, to him pressuring me into drinking at his friends' parties, which eventually became my only escape from the constant torment of our turbulent relationship.

Caleb's possessive nature ensured I didn't make many friends in college, aside from Laina, so I only ever had him. But I never really did, since our emotional connection was nonexistent. I couldn't talk to him without being shut down. This slowly ate away at my self esteem, shredding me apart inside, piece by piece, until I was nothing but a collection of slivers. There were days I could not recognize myself in the mirror.

I hated Caleb for fooling me into believing he was something greater than what he was. I hated myself even more for falling for it, and allowing him to change me into a fragile shell of my former self.

We split up, and got back together, over and over again. Each time, he promised to get better, and yet each time, it only got worse. Before I knew it, years had passed with us living on this roller coaster. I finally had enough half a year ago, and ended things completely, after he ruined my hard work at Channel 4, through malice and jealousy.

When I obtained my internship at Channel 4, and was later signed on as a full time employee, Caleb worried that I'd no longer be dependent on him. I was spending a lot of hours at the office, trying to earn my way into other positions. My duties shifted from coffee girl, to writing cue cards for anchors, to finally writing stories for a subdivision newspaper. My pride and confidence were growing for the first time, in a long time.

Caleb grew fearful that I would find someone else. Even if he never admitted this to me, I still knew his reasoning. If I had my own money, my own friends, and my own connections, I wouldn't need Caleb anymore.

If I were treated with kindness and respect by others, I would be able to see Caleb for what he was: toxic.

One evening, Caleb drove over to argue with me in the company parking lot, in an attempt to cause a scene in front of my superiors. Afterward, Caleb came by the station, planted a half-drunken bottle of vodka in my desk, and called in an anonymous complaint about me drinking on the job.

When my boss found the bottle, and I could not simply explain my way out of it, he gave me the option to resign instead of terminating me. He didn't want to, as my work behind the scenes was fantastic, but it was company policy—zero tolerance.

My boss promised to give a good recommendation, and I was grateful for his graciousness.

After I lost my job, or rather was forced to quit, I was alone, unemployed, majorly depressed, and hopelessly lost. If anyone asked about my job, I only mentioned that I quit because I wasn't happy there anymore, and I was looking for something more challenging.

Nobody ever questioned my response, which was a relief at the time.

Instead of continuing my life, I fell into the well. To move back home with my parents would have been, in my eyes, to admit failure and accept defeat. Selfishly, and foolishly, I stayed in my apartment, where all of the pain collected on the walls, seeping into the paint and hiding in the corners.

I pretended that everything was okay, putting a strong face on for everyone around me, but inside I was crumbling into nothingness. When the thoughts and memories became too much, and my fear of the future began to consume me, I started drinking alone in my desolate apartment. There were days I slouched down on a wall with a bottle and didn't move for hours. I never picked up the phone and I never went out unless I absolutely had to.

My body survived mainly on the calories from the alcohol and I began losing a lot of weight. And yet, as the weight fell off of me, in my malnourished state, the pressure inside only built upon itself exponentially.

One awful evening, I was shaving my legs in the bath tub and my unsteady hand caused me to nick myself accidentally. The sudden, sharp sting momentarily occupied my mind. I could only focus on the shallow wound, and for a blissful moment, the terrible memories would fade.

This gave me the awful idea to continue this lamentable pattern for a short time. For a few seconds, the internal pressure would level off, even if it was filled instead with shame.

"How are you, Brooke?" Anyone might have asked.

"I'm fine, and you?" This was the only acceptable answer.

The world had no time to care, or mend someone's broken pieces. No, the world rather preferred one's agony to bury itself deep down below the surface—where its effects could hide in the light of day—and cover itself in a pretty bow of deceit.

Still, I learned that nobody could lie forever—that, eventually, the truth had to manifest itself somehow. Houses of cards were meant to crumble, after all, and as mine did, anyone who cared to do so could've seen the truth etched onto my skin. Pink patches of flesh—in raised lines—remained, where I'd once regretfully carved.

The truth. Upon my body it sat, like a coverless book at the back of a library. Dusty, undisturbed, and alone. The captivating colors remained trapped inside the book—woven and hidden between blocks of text—but never had someone bothered to pry open the lackluster cover to peek inside.

The truth. I wrote it... but would anyone ever read it?

As much as I wished it hadn't, the decision to self harm had changed me. All in all, I was unsure about whether it was ever a real cry for help, as I never saw anyone. I was positive, though, that it was a true, humiliating sickness that was only exacerbated through drinking. The lasting guilt of this pattern began to outweigh the fleeting seconds of peace, and I stopped harming myself shortly thereafter.

It was one of the strongest things I did for myself, especially in my weakened state.

My drinking, on the other hand, continued until Laina showed up one night, two months earlier, in April, uninvited, with a gift. I had lost track of the days and forgotten my own birthday.

When Laina saw me, and the state of my apartment, she dropped her bags and held me for what felt like hours. We stood there, crying into each other's shoulders, not saying a word.

Laina helped me clean the entire apartment that night, from top to bottom. The scent of bleach sobered me up, and I told Laina a little bit of what was going on. She didn't ask too many questions, and instead just listened to the bits of information I was willing to share with her at the time, while we scrubbed the place. Laina and I emptied every bottle of liquor, apart from the one bottle I kept in my closet until tonight, down the drain. I did not have a sip since.

Once the distractions were mostly out of the way, and I could at least rely on Laina's support, I really wanted out of this spiraling cycle. Sleep would not come easily to me, and sometimes I would go days without it. But normally, I would get three or four broken hours of sleep a night. I refused to grow dependent on sleeping pills, although I did take some when it was necessary for me to be alert the next day.

But I also needed something to fill my time, especially at night, to avoid temptations.

While I couldn't do it for work just yet, I wrote for myself.

My night hours were spent writing poems, something I stopped doing in my teenage years. It felt good to surrender in this way, and feel the things that I tried to suppress before, by any means necessary. It was a mandatory pain, but not a lasting one.

My pen scribbled on paper until I mentally exhausted myself and could rest for the night. Over the months, I filled an entire binder with poems and closed the cover, as I did the old chapter of my life with Caleb.

Since I had met Julian, though, sleep was coming so much more easily to me. I knew this was not a coincidence, but rather a direct result of the peace and hope he had already brought to my life.

Music became paramount for me, and when Laina showed me an album from Ascend the Stars, I couldn't help but to connect with it. The music was unlike anything I'd ever heard before, and it spoke to me in volumes. It was melodic, upbeat, and loud. Loud enough to drown out terrible thoughts. Everything about the album captivated me, from the tempos to the lyrics, and it sparked something deep within me.

Ascend the Stars reminded me of what it felt like to be excited... thrilled, even. With newfound electricity flowing through me, I listened to the CD countless times on the first day alone, and it hadn't left my car since.

Until now, I didn't know any of the guys personally, of course. As a band, however, Ascend the Stars was a part of my happiness and ultimate recovery from some of my darkest and loneliest days. For that alone, I would be forever grateful.

The elated feelings that Julian gave me through his incredible music, though, were nothing in comparison to the whirlwind of emotions he stirred inside me... as a person, just by being himself.

He gave me hope.

He made me feel worthy.

He lifted my spirits to the ultimate buoyancy.

He filled me with anticipation.

He gave me an odd sense of meaning and completion.

And, maybe, there was something else, too. Another feeling that I wasn't quite ready to say yet.

I wasn't just passing through the gray days anymore, simply going through the motions. With Julian, I finally felt alive.

When the words fell from my lips, I felt exposed, but simultaneously relieved. Julian was truly getting a glimpse into the heart of me, that beat for him. In such a short time, I told him so much.

The only thing I didn't mention to Julian, was my real dad.

That would have to wait for a better time and place, I thought.

When I finally paused and waited for Julian to respond to this tidal wave of information I had just unloaded upon him, I heard him heaving into the receiver. Julian had been crying and I didn't even notice until just then.

"Brooke," Julian said, with a notable crack in his throat.

"Yes, Julian?"

"You have to promise me something." His hoarse voice was desperate.

"What is it?" I asked, biting my lip.

"Promise me you won't ever hurt yourself like that again." The words tumbled out of his mouth.

"I promise, Julian." My heart swelled and warmed.

"And I'll promise you something as well, Brooke. I won't ever hurt you like he did. I will be here for you, as long as you want me here." Julian's tears were easing.

"I want you around for a long, long time," I admitted, red coloring my cheeks. Maybe forever.

"I'm not going anywhere," Julian swore. "You're stuck with me."

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

With his deep breaths echoing through the receiver, I stopped caring whether or not I seemed too clingy. It became wholly apparent to me that we were so far past this worry.

Everything in my life had changed in a matter of days, and no matter how confusing it all seemed, nothing had ever made so much sense at the same time.

I wanted to be better for myself, better for Julian, better all the time. He deserved the best of me, for whatever amount of time I would have him.

1. "Heart's a Mess" by Gotye

2. "Oceans" (acoustic) by Seafret

3. "You're Like Me" by Aquilo

4. "Unworthy" by Vancouver Sleep Clinic

5. "Two" by Sleeping at Last (Thank you, )