Things ill never say, p.1
Things I'll Never Say, page 1
DEAR READER,
The human experience is an adventure. We’re born, we live, and we die, but for those left behind, the journey can sometimes feel too short. Life comes with a lot of WTF moments, and I want you to know there are quite a few WTF moments in these pages. While life is magical, it can also be an absolute shit show from time to time.
Things I’ll Never Say is a story about loss. Specifically losing someone to a drug overdose. And even more specifically, to an opioid addiction. Casey Jones turns to drugs to numb the pain of grieving before she finds a way out of her own addiction. This story is about living with rage, anxiety, panic, depression, and ADHD. There are a few biphobic and internalized fatphobic moments addressed and worked through on the page.
There is also light and love and laughter here, because sometimes in our darkest moments, that’s when we need to laugh the loudest. I’d like to think that by the end, we find Casey healed in a multitude of different ways.
Lastly, there is no right way to mourn. I have learned through my own losses that the cycles of grief are like the motions of a tide. Sometimes the pain comes rushing in and eats away at you grain by grain, until you’re full of holes. And other times it rushes in with memories and fills the holes it created in the first place. Ride the waves of grief, keep their memory alive, and eventually, you’ll find yourself healing along the way.
I hope that Casey’s story helps you heal, or at the very least, lets you know you aren’t alone.
Kindly—
For my family—always be the ripple in still water.
—C.N.
Published by Peachtree Teen
An imprint of PEACHTREE PUBLISHING COMPANY INC.
1700 Chattahoochee Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112
PeachtreeBooks.com
Text © 2023 by Cassandra Newbould
Cover art © 2023 by Hokyoung Kim
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Edited by Ashley Hearn
Design and composition by Lily Steele
Content Warnings: opioid addiction, drug and alcohol use, death by drug overdose, anxiety, panic, depression, ADHD, internalized biphobia and fatphobia.
Melrose Park, IL, USA.
ISBN: 978-1-68263-596-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Newbould, Cassandra, author.
Title: Things I’ll never say / Cassandra Newbould.
Other titles: Things I will never say
Description: First edition. | Atlanta, Georgia : Peachtree Teen, [2023] |
Audience: Ages 14 and up. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: Eighteen-year-old Casey turns to journaling to cope with her twin brother’s death and the complicated, romantic feelings she develops for both her best friends, Francesca and Benjamin.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022056444 | ISBN 9781682635964 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781682635971 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Bisexual people—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Diaries—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.N4854 Th 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022056444
Ebook ISBN 9781682635971
a_prh_6.0_143736962_c1_r0
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Copyright
Title Page
May 6
May 10
May 13
May 14
May 20
May 20
May 21
May 22
May 23
May 24
May 24
May 25
May 27
May 28
June 2
June 3
June 4
June 4
June 5
June 6
June 7
June 8
June 8
June 9
June 10
June 11
June 12
June 13
June 14
June 15
June 16
June 17
June 19
June 20
June 21
June 22
June 23
June 30
June 30
JULY 31
August 3
August 4
August 6
September 22
October 4, 4:20 P.M.
October 4, 6:06 P.M.
Acknowledgments
About the Author
MAY 6
DEAR SAMMY,
That’s how these things always start, right?
I pretend you’re still here, spill my guts on the page, and hope one day you’ll understand the meaning behind my words.
Except you won’t.
Because to understand, you’d actually need to read what I’m saying.
And we both know that will never happen again.
Seventeen.
That’s the number of journals I’ve written to you since you died. One for every month you’ve been gone. Well, almost. I skipped last month. Let’s just say there were a few days where I was…on vacation. A brain break, if you will.
Life has been super overwhelming lately. To be honest, I’m starting to hate these journals because no matter how often I write, or what I say, or how hard I wish we could talk about it later, you never respond. Which is probably why I blew you off last month.
I can’t win. Even though I sorta hate it, I also need to write to you to function.
The worst part is I can still hear your voice in my head when I try to imagine what you’d say. It makes me want to cry and scream and break things (which I often do) because I’m terrified one day I’m going to lose that part of you too.
That’s all I have left. A memory of your voice. It’s not enough.
I miss confiding in you. I even miss your bs answers that never made sense until, like, three weeks after the fact. Or your bored two-word texts in response to a freaking paragraph of my grief (you always reminded me it wasn’t that deep in the first place because me and drama go together like PBnJ, and I’ve got the attention span of a gnat). Or how you used to fill up an entire note during fifth period with your horrible stick-figure drawings while I waited impatiently for your advice on something serious.
That shit used to make me so mad. Now? I would literally sell my soul for one word from you. One stupid stick figure.
I cannot grasp the fact that I’ll never get your opinion about anything in my life ever again. Especially because there is SO MUCH we need to talk about RIGHT NOW.
All of my journals have been important in one way or another, but I promise you eighteen is going to be the Mount Everest of them. Like this one is gearing up to be a level seven on the WTF scale. And the absolute worst thing about it is a part of me still expects an answer from you. I really need your advice, and I have no one else to turn to. Not even the Scar Squad.
Especially not the Squad.
I don’t know if I can forgive you for this, Sammy.
But I’m going to keep making these journals because if I stop it means I’ve stopped mourning you. Well, I’ve never been a quitter, so I’m not quitting you.
Over and out—
Your sis
MAY 10
DEAR SAMMY,
It’s been four days since I saw the sun. And before that, the only kind of light I had last week were those harsh fluorescent monsters that won’t let you sleep no matter how tired you might be. You know the ones. The kind you find in hospital rooms. The kind that leaves no shadows for hiding…
I can’t seem to find the energy to crawl out from under the covers. I told Mom I might have the flu, but I don’t think she’s buying it. She hung up my graduation gown on the back of my bedroom door so it’s the first thing I see (and the last thing I see) and I hate her for it.
And you.
Low blow, I know, but I don’t want to do this without you here.
That first day last week when I refused to come out for dinner, Dad snuck in while I was sleeping and put this journal on my nightstand. I know I skipped last month and I’m sorry. There’s a lot to say right now and it’s hard to find the words, but I’m trying.
It’s a screwy situation because my therapist says writing should be encouraging or uplifting or whatever, but sometimes all I feel is guilt instead of the you-can-do-it, you can survive vibe.
When I look at the empty pages it’s hard to see past all the things I’ll never say to you. All the moments we’re never going to have together.
Once I walk across that stage, I will have officially moved on.
I can’t.
I just…can’t.
Over and out—
MAY 13
OPI.OID CRI.SIS
Pressed pills
Pressed for time, life, love
They take it all away
Stealing, always stealing
Time, life, love.
You swallow them down, one by one
Two by two
Until you can’t count anymore.
They sell you a belief that you’ll find relief
Off those pressed pills
But you’ll only find they are the source of your pain
Dragging you under until you drown.
You swallow them down, one by one
Two by two
Until you can’t breathe anymore.
They’ll leave you lying on the floor
Dying, while your survivors cry why?
You’re giving them nothing in return but
Pressed pills
Pressed for time, life, love
They take it all away
They took you away.
You swallowed them down, one by one
Two by two
Until they were the only thing
left…of you.
Over and out—
MAY 14
DEAR SAMMY,
Three a.m. is a strange time. Everything is so still. Except for the frogs. They won’t shut tf up. I promised myself I’d only take one of your pills to stop the pain, and I broke it. I’m sorry. All my life I wanted to be like you. I mean, obviously a much cooler, prettier version of you. Ha! You know what I mean.
I wanted to find the light you gave off. Bottle it. Save it for a rainy day.
Wow, it’s reeeeally hard to write in the dark. The words keep dripping off the paper. What I’m trying to say is, I do still want to be like you in all ways—except for this one.
I’m sorry.
The countdown has begun. Six more days until the end of an era. A new future: without you.
Remember that one time when you promised me nothing would ever change? Breathing is underrated.
Under
Rated.
Under debated.
A shadow keeps moving up the wall, and sometimes I think it’s you. The way it creeps all stealth-like. It’s got a purpose. You had one too. I just can’t seem to remember what it was…. Fuck, I think Mom’s coming.
Everything’s so blurry.
You know what’s heavier than you’d expect? A pen. It holds the weight of the world in a tube of ink, just waiting to explode and spill nonsense across every surface. Gonna go, I can’t keep my eyes open.
I’m sorry
Over and out—
MAY 20
DEAR SAMMY,
First, I just wanted to say I’m sorry I fell asleep in the middle of my last entry.
Okay. That’s a lie.
I passed out. But I am sorry nonetheless.
This whole graduation thing’s got me twisted because it was always something I planned on doing with you. So that’s big. Epic, right?! The culminating event that takes us into adulthood with the entire world waiting for us to explore it afterward. Except now we can’t. No matter how hard I wish otherwise.
And trust me when I say there’s no way to prevent the inevitable. Believe me, because I almost failed like three classes last semester trying to do just that, and even though my grades were shit, they still passed me because I’m grieving or whatever.
So here I am, on the second-worst morning of my life, confessing how much it’s killing me, and along with the other million reasons why graduation sucks, the cherry on top is that I’m about to break my last promise to you. No, not just the one about not taking pills.
The other BIG one.
Unacceptable. I know. But maybe now you can see why I got so sloppy the other night. The pressure is overwhelming. Remember when we used to play KerPlunk, or Jenga, and we’d get to the part in the game where we knew we were about to lose but there was no turning back? That’s how I feel 24/7.
All eyes are watching and waiting for the last piece that’s going to destroy me. The timer is set, the bets are placed. It’s just a numbers game from here on out.
And sure, I may have broken a couple of promises to you, but you broke a lot of promises to me, so I’m going to consider this blip a free pass. Just in case you were wondering, it’s incredibly difficult to keep my word about all the things when we can’t renegotiate the terms, like, ever.
I’ll be honest. I don’t know if I can stop the pills completely. I want to, though.
As far as the other promise, well…as much as I’d like to believe you only had my heart in mind, I know you were scheming—it’s so obvi. I just don’t know why. But regardless, I haven’t told Ben I like him. Not even a little bit.
You made me swear on the life of Boscoe I’d tell Ben I’m crushing on him, or you’d make my life a living hell for being such a punk bitch. I think it’s safe to say you’re doing that already, so your threat is preeety hollow. Anyway, I have a plan. It’s just delayed, and has become a bit more complicated since last year. Before I can open up to Ben, there’s someone else I need to talk to first. Luckily there’s this massive grad party coming up, and I’ll talk to both of them then.
Also, in case you’re wondering, Boscoe is alive and well.
Who’d have thought a cat would outlive my own twin…. It’s so weird to think about shit like that.
Crap, there’s a lot more I want to say right now but Mom really is calling me this time. I wish I could stay in my bedroom forever. It almost feels safe here. Maybe I could set my gown on fire—then I wouldn’t be able to walk.
Hey, it’s about to be hurricane season, maybe a freak storm will blow down the entire school in the next three hours. Or maybe I’ll just run away when shit gets tough.
That’s always been our specialty. Right?
Gotta go, but I promise I’ll return. Tomorrow. Swear.
Over and out—
MAY 20
DEAR SAMMY,
Okay, so I’m back. Let me just say you didn’t miss anything. Why don’t people warn you about how boring the actual graduation ceremony is? I mean, come oooon. Four hours of people getting up onstage and talking about all their dreams and goals and…
Fuck. I can’t breathe. Gimme a sec, okay?
* * *
—
Breathing is underrated.
That’s my observation of the day. You’d think it’d cross people’s minds more often considering we’d all die without oxygen, but nope. I’ve realized I am in the minority when it comes to my obsession. And I hate it. It’s not fair. All my focus revolves around my chest tightening and closing in. The squish and soft bits that protect my skeleton become a vise—a torture device—and it’s squeezing every single bit of oxygen out of my existence.
If you were still around, you’d understand because you were the only person who knew me better than I know myself. You had this magical way of making me forget about breathing altogether. But you aren’t here anymore. I won’t lay the blame entirely on you, promise, but who am I kidding? Life was a lot easier with you in it.
I miss you, Sammy. I literally miss you with every breath I take. When do we—the ones who are uncontrollably obsessed with breathing—get a chance to forget about you? about our lungs? Are we malfunctioning humans? Has my warranty already expired because yours did?
If so, then I want a refund. Honestly, because this sucks. I only need to forget for a little while. Just a few Sammy-free breaths.
Before you died my anxiety was like a pebble in my shoe. When I noticed it, it super sucked, right? But it wasn’t always there. Now there’s a goddamn boulder in my shoe and it’s stuck with superglue. I feel it in EVERY step. This constant panic is now my NORMAL. My body is a sellout and my brain is an asshole, and because of you, I end up concentrating on breathing all the time.
It’s like I’m walking underwater against a tide that just keeps coming in and I’m pushing, crawling, fighting my way forward and never gaining a single foot of ground.
That first month after you died I was lost. A goner. I couldn’t find my way back to the surface no matter how hard I tried. In the first session with my therapist, I mentioned how we always used to write to each other whenever one of us was having issues, and now my issues have multiplied about a gazillion times, but I can’t tell you any of them.
