The Gospel They Buried

I never thought anyone else would read these pages. For a long time, I didn't even read them myself. I just wrote because writing was the only place that felt safe, the only way I knew how to be honest without being hurt for it. I wrote down what I couldn't say anywhere else, things no one wanted to hear anyway.

This isn't a memoir. It's not a recovery story either, because I never got better in the ways people expected. It's just pieces of what happened, moments I needed to keep somewhere other than inside my head, because memories left alone too long can start to lie.

Most of this was written alone, usually at night. Sometimes it was hard to remember clearly. Sometimes writing it down hurt more than living through it. I used to think if I stopped writing, I'd disappear completely. Somehow, that never happened.

Now it feels like time to let someone else see it, not because I want to, but because keeping it hidden doesn't feel right anymore. I'm tired of carrying it alone.

If you've ever felt erased, ignored, or buried beneath someone else's version of what happened, maybe some of this will feel familiar. If it does, I hope it feels less lonely than when it happened.

That's why I call it The Gospel They Buried. It isn't about healing, because healing wasn't possible. It isn't about survival either, because what survived isn't something I recognize.

It's the nights I couldn't talk about, the deaths I walked into and somehow walked out of, and the thing that crawled inside me when I finally came up for air.

If you're reading this now, it's already too late to turn away.

I'm not offering answers. I'm not even sure I'm asking questions. All I know is that this is what's left of me, and now someone else knows it too.

Maybe that counts for something...

~Katrina Hel