2016 was the most difficult year of my life and, for much of that year, I was in my bed at home. Thus, I experienced a full range of emotions in it but mostly extremely negative ones. As someone whose memory is influenced a lot by senses, my bed is sort of a trigger. I wrote prose about it to get my feelings off my chest.

This bed is the home of too many waking nightmares.

This is where I laid as my dream school rejected me. The only place I applied where my soul felt at home. The only place where I felt whole and harbored no doubts. I swore that it was where I belonged, but I fell short and wasn’t enough. (I never am.)

This is where I laid as my attempts of trying to be a good friend came back to bite me In the ass. Every single worst-case-scenario hypothetical festered into reality to my horror, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

This is where I laid as I frantically flipped through the papers where a former friend tried to ruin me. Heart racing, vision blurring, muscles tremoring, I scratched out any chance of her taking away the one thing that I had left—my secret that would have ended me for sure.

This is where I laid as my world ended as I knew it around me. All of the years of hard work and studying—all of the college acceptances—wasted, as my parents threatened to never let me out of their sight again. Inches away from being outed, I assumed the worst and prepared for it.

This is where I laid as I desperately schemed an exit plan. Pills were too painful and too much of a gamble. I could never effectively tie a noose. I didn’t have access to a gun. My options were scarce, but there was always jumping or running. And there was always the knife collection in the kitchen.

This is where I laid as I watched helplessly as someone who I once considered a close friend did all of the stabbing for me. Already on the ground wounded and weak, she nearly finished the job and ran away with the only reason I hadn’t gone through with the exit plan.

This is where I laid as I choked on my tears and couldn’t breathe. My best friend answered my countless calls, only to hear my muffled sobs and gasps for air. I cried until my stomach ached, my throat closed, and until there was absolutely nothing left to fall out of my eyes. Until there was nothing but silence. (But my mind stayed far from silent.)

This is where I laid as I counted down the days until I could leave this town and start anew. I dreamt of drowning my sorrows with alcohol at the parties, hooking up with straight girls looking to experiment, and basking in the warmth of my new climate. My sliver of hope was my ability to hold onto the concept of this fantasy.

(Not a single part of that fantasy came true.)

I am better now. My mind has cleared. The exit plan has been removed for months. I have endured these nightmares and become a stronger person as a result of it.

But this is where I lay as these moments continue to haunt me. If I listen to the songs from those times, close my eyes, and focus hard enough, I’m transported back to these memories.

This bed represents all of my pain from this past year. And I can’t lay in it without it consuming me again.

I want to burn it and all of the tainted memories it carries within.