Tears stream down my face as I hurry up the stairs, his words reverberating in my head. With every reminder of the way things used to be and the way things are now, my heart breaks a little more until nothing is left inside me.

“I don’t feel the same way anymore,” he said. “I’ve already found another girl and… we’re in love. I’m going to propose to her tomorrow and we’ll be sure to give you an invitation once the plans have been finalized.”

How could he be so… so…There’s not even a name for people like him! I thought he loved me. I gave him my whole heart and I trusted him with it.

Maybe I should change ‘hurry up the stairs’ to ‘hurry down the stairs’. But that makes no sense. Daniel, her ex, is downstairs, so why would she be crying while hurrying down them? She can’t hurry down the stairs if she’s already on the first floor!

But the OCD is telling me to erase ‘up’ and write ‘down’, silently threatening that if I don’t, something terrible will happen. I hover my mouse over the word and tell myself that it’s not true and nothing bad will happen, but the nagging feeling won’t go away, so I give in and change it.

And the word ‘reverberating’… I don’t want to change it to ‘repeating’, but I’m being told that I have to, or… or he’ll somehow find me.

“Time for church, sweetheart. When we get back, I’ll make you macaroni and cheese and then we can go for a walk. How does that sound?"

I smile slightly. “Good. Thanks.”

The truth is that I really don’t want to go to church, but I don’t want to tell her that. In fact, the word ‘church’ fills me with dread. It’s just that I don’t like to be reminded of how sure some people are of God’s love for them while I’m so… unsure. How could a perfect God love such an imperfect me?

° * ° * °

During “small groups” at church, I sit with five other girls and four boys in a circle. There are four groups in total in this building – the Youth Services Building. It’s a pretty small church, which makes the whole situation worst for me. Everyone knows everybody and their mother, and word travels fast here.

Everyone here is surprisingly open with one another. Especially during prayer time. Whenever someone asks me if I need prayer, I reply with an, “I’m fine,” or “No, thanks.” Or even an “I’m cool,” will replace the tears I want to let out. The askers always look at me strangely and some even pray with me anyway, no doubt seeing through my pretense.

The way I see it, if I were to tell someone the areas in which I need prayer, it would give them access to the sore, soft spots of my emotional being. It would dig up my past of trauma, although it’s not too far from the surface anyway. Not in my mind.

“Christopher, would you mind saying the closing prayer?”

I’m delighted that Mrs. Brisbane didn’t choose me. I figure she’s learned over this past month that no matter how many times she asks me to open or close in prayer, I will never agree to it.

A sweaty palm meets my own and fingers surrounding it curl, trapping my hand just when I thought I was about to run. I look to my left and see Christopher, his eyes closed and his head bowed, wondering where he gets this fearlessness from. I could never do what he does; it’s much too scary. And I’d feel like a phony, praying to a God I’m not even sure is listening.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Christopher begins, completely unaware that I’m studying his face and the constant movement of his hand that holds mine. He seems disturbed…

His hand continues to move until it is no longer interlaced with mine. It slips out slowly and returns to his side, and I instantly become offended. He didn’t seem to mind holding me on Friday during that near miss accident right outside of the school building. In fact, I was the first to let go then. Now he’s acting as if I have leprosy, noticeably taking a side-step away from me.

When he reaches, “Amen,” he stutters a little, then opens his eyes. He utters a quick, “I need to go,” grabs his bag and speeds out the side door, leaving me with a flurry of questions in his wake.

“God bless you all and I hope to see you next week,” Mrs. Brisbane says cheerfully. I sling my bag over my shoulder and turn to leave, but pause, sighing and pouting when she calls me out. I’m sure to at least attempt to wipe the look off my face before turning back to her.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Trinity…” she says slowly, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. “The Lord has laid it on my heart to pray for you. Is there anything specific I can pray for you about?”

“Um… I broke my nail yesterday, but that’s about as bad as it gets,” is my cover-up. It’s a pretty weak cover-up, I’m sure, but that’s the best I can come up with at such short notice. The look on Mrs. Brisbane’s face, however, causes me to doubt that. That was probably the worst thing that came to my nervous mind.

“Here, take this.”

I’m handed a sheet of notebook paper, folded up into a tiny square, and when I open it I see that Mrs. Brisbane wrote her phone number on it.

“Thanks,” I reply quietly. Does she really expect me to call her? It’s not that I don’t like her, because I do. It’s just that I don’t want her to care, which is something she’s apparently very good at. She just doesn’t know how good I am at shutting people out.

 She urges me to, “Call if you ever need anything,” then goes on to say that she cares about each and every one of the kids here. I’m taken aback when, “But there’s something about you…” boldly comes out of her mouth. She’s quick to apologize.

“I’m fine, really,” is my response.

“You know what? I don’t believe you.” She looks deep into my eyes as I mentally squirm, trying not to look away, but I do not a second later. “Trinity, honey, you can call me at whatever hour. Please.” It shows all too well in her eyes that there’s a bigger reason she’s persisting than she cares to share. At least right now.

“Okay, thanks.”

“There’s your mom,” she says, nodding in her direction. To my foster mother, she shouts, “I’m sorry I kept her for so long!”

A smile in her voice, Mrs. Johnson replies, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I know she’s in good hands when left with you.”

I suddenly tense when a hand is laid on my head and fingers comb my hair, then tuck some of it behind my right ear.

It’s just Mrs. Johnson. She won’t use his excuse.

My curly blonde hair that she continues to neaten falls a few inches below my bottom. Whenever she touches it, it reminds me of him. There were serious consequences when I showed up one day with my hair cut to mid-back.

It wasn’t perfect; I had done it myself. It was quite choppy, but that wasn’t my biggest concern when I saw the look of rage on his face that he kept from passersby. I will never forget that look; he wore it often and it still haunts my mind, and sometimes even my vision.

It’s just Mrs. Johnson, I repeat inside my head. She won’t use his excuse. She wouldn’t.

“We’d better get going. I promised Trinity her favorite snack and a walk when we get home. She loves walks because she takes her special camera with her and takes all kinds of beautiful pictures!”

“Oh, okay, I won’t keep you two any longer,” Mrs. Brisbane says with a smile. “Enjoy your food, Trinity, and I’d love to see some of your photos someday!”

“Oh, you should bring some in to show her next week!” my foster mother suggests before turning back to my youth pastor. “Trinity is also amazing at editing the photos she takes, like superimposing and all those other things that are way over my head!”

“That’s awesome! I’m actually in need of a photographer for my son’s fifth birthday party soon. The date hasn’t been decided yet, but I’d love to see some of your examples as soon as you can bring them in!”

I smile a little. “Okay.”

“See you two later,” Mrs. Brisbane says as she starts slowly walking backward. She puts her hand to her ear, gesturing for me to call her. She mouths, “Whenever,” and I nod.

° * ° * °

I sit at the table eating my macaroni and cheese in silence while Mrs. Johnson pretty much has a conversation with herself. I don’t have the emotional energy to talk… to say anything.

“Rosie from church was telling me about this formal that’s coming up soon at her community center and she invited the both of us. It’ll be so much fun! She’s offering you a dress… one that she’s never worn. It was for her sweet sixteen, but it never worked out so she never wore it. We can run over to her house tomorrow after school so you can see it and make a decision. How’s that sound?”

Her question goes without an answer. I remain hunched over my plate, but I’m not eating anymore. I feel too nauseous.

“Sweetheart, is there anything I can do to help you? I can see that you’re feeling blue.”

I want to tell her to call it what it is: depressed, but I know how much she hates that word. Over and over I’ve said it until I gave up and stopped telling her when I feel that way. I refuse to call it “blue”. Is she scared of the real word for it? Why can’t she just call it what it is? How am I to get real help if I’m not allowed to say, “I feel depressed,” or, “I feel anxious” and the like?

I don’t notice when she sits down across from me until she speaks.

“Trinity, I’m trying.” She has tears in her eyes as she looks into mine. Seeing those tears makes me feel even closer to them. I hate seeing other people sad, especially when it’s because of me. I’m the reason for those tears. I’m just too much to deal with.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“I’m really trying, sweetheart, but this is all new to me. I love-”

“You don’t have to… You don’t have to try so hard, or at all. If… if I’m too much of a burden, you don’t have to put up with me. I don’t want to cause any stress. You can give up on me. Everyone else has… It’s okay. I’d understand.” I surprise myself by saying all this. I don’t usually talk very much. “I’d give up on me.”

“Trinity, honey,” Mrs. Johnson says gently, getting up from her chair and coming around to me. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t you ever say those words again. I love you too much to do any of that. You’re way too precious for me to even think such thoughts. I will never give up on you, love, and you shouldn’t give up on yourself, either. Keep fighting. I wish I could say that I’ll always be by your side, but the truth is I don’t know if I will. Our time together may be more limited than I imagine, but I just want to know that you’ll keep fighting until all of this is gone… that you won’t give up. Can you promise me that?”

Bluntly, I reply, “No,” and immediately feel bad when a look of disappointment crosses her face. “I’m sorry… It’s just that… it’s hard. I’m tired of living with all of this… It’s just too hard. Nothing and no one can help. No matter what I do when I feel… ‘blue’… it doesn’t go away. It’s a daily struggle and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of taking medicine twice a day… I’m tired of knowing I need that crutch, but they don’t even work! All they do is give me stomach aches that last for hours and make me nauseous. I’m-”

“Trinity-”

“-tired of always feeling like I’m weak. I am weak. Nothing helps. I’m tired of everything – the hallucinations, the OCD, the depression and anxiety – and nothing brings relief.”

“You’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

“Then why am I constantly crying? How can I possibly be strong when I’m always breaking down?”

I feel so embarrassed for going on and on, but at the same time it kind of feels good to finally talk… to be candid for once… to share my raw feelings.

“Trinity, it’s okay to cry,” Mrs. Johnson says, taking my hand and helping me up from my chair. She hugs me tightly and rubs my back. “In fact, it can be good for you. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. You’re being so hard on yourself. No matter what you are, which is beautiful and strong I’ll have you know, I love you and Jesus loves you, and we both want you to love yourself and quit thinking that you’re not worth it, because you are.”