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I read the title of the pamphlet for the umpteenth time, shaking my head in disbelief. I’m not the one with PTSD, and maybe if the school psychologist had given me reading material about how to cope with people suffering from PTSD, I’d have a different reaction. I didn’t feel like I needed to see her, but Trevor had spoken to the principal about how to “make sure my final year runs as smoothly as possible” and this was one of the many, many things on the list. So, every Monday and Wednesday I had to sit in an uncomfortable chair for a half hour and spill my guts about everything that was going on, all the emotions I was experiencing, and what I was doing to cope with it all.
I had nothing to say regarding any of those things, so I spent the entirety of our appointment trying to convince Miss Turner—a woman not much older than myself—that I was fine. Perfect, even. That my home life did not affect my school life, my grades, my future.
Vincit qui se vincit: He conquers who conquers himself.
I am a conqueror.
I am.
I am.
I flick the ring around my thumb.
I am.
I am.
I wish it to be true because those are the last words my stepdad, William, said to me before he walked out the door. “You’re a conqueror, Ava. You got this.” I didn’t respond to him. I simply held the front door open and watched his truck pull out of the driveway and disappear down the road. I didn’t ask where he was going. I didn’t care. And I didn’t ask why he was leaving me, leaving us. I already knew. He didn’t love us, so he left. Love should make people stay. Love should make you want to keep the people who hold that love near.
Until one day when you open the bathroom door, and the scream that erupts from your throat forces you to understand. At that moment, I fell to my knees, soaking in crimson while clinging to hope—and I knew why William left. Because sometimes, love isn’t enough. And neither is a school motto that teaches you from the day you enroll to the day you graduate that you must conquer all. Always. And when the tears blur your vision and your hands shake uncontrollably, and your throat aches with the cries that have consumed you, and you pick up the phone and question who to call, who to save you… you fail.
You don’t dial 911 as you should.
Guilt seeps into my veins and through my airways, making breathing a task.
I flick the ring again.
I am not a conqueror.
I am a fucking failure.
I am.
I am.
* * *
At around five thirty a car door slams, and I pack up my homework scattered on the kitchen table and get started on dinner. Heavy footsteps enter the house, his head lowered, tools in one hand, work hat in the other. I watch from the kitchen doorway as he slumps down on the couch by the front door of our tiny three-bedroom house and starts unlacing his boots. Shoulders slouched, messy hair and tired eyes, the man is a picture of exhaustion and responsibility, and I hate that he’s here. Hate that he’s taken us on when he should be living his dream: playing football and finishing his degree at Texas A&M.
I don’t ask him how his day was; I already know.
“How was your first day?” he asks, never once looking up.
“Good,” I lie.
He nods, not asking anything more. He looks across the living room at a bedroom door—behind it: our reason and his responsibility. He murmurs words I can’t decipher. When he looks up at me, he offers a smile that shatters my heart and adds layers to the constant knot in my throat. Heat burns behind my eyes, and I choke back my weaknesses. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
He sighs, “Thank you, Ava.”
I want to yell at him. I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be thanking me for anything. That I’m the one who’s thankful, that I’m forever in his debt. I want to tell him that I love him.
But if my stepdadleaving has taught me anything—it’s this:
Love is not a noun.
Love is something you do.
Something you prove.
