Corporate Bullying Saved My Life: Overcoming Life's Challenges

By La Tanisha C. Wright

La Tanisha C. Wright does what no other tobacco marketing executive has done before: She covertly helps public health leaders and Attorneys General end a predatory marketing campaign and sue the Big Tobacco Company that she works for. During her efforts to protect the public, a vicious attack brings her life to a standstill. She plummets into depression, and is haunted by the spirit of suicide.

She resigns from the tobacco industry and continues to combat the tobacco epidemic. As she matures into a renowned public speaker, she suffers unbearable heartaches. In an effort to overcome, she uses her experiences with Big Tobacco as a platform to start her own business. In a strange twist, federal public health officials conspire to impede her mission to protect the public from tobacco industry marketing practices.

Ms. Wright chronicles a lifetime of abuse and corporate bullying, and the subsequent journey of grieving, forgiving, and healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365143458

Book preview

Corporate Bullying Saved My Life: Overcoming Life's Challenges

Corporate Bullying Saved My Life

A memoir

La Tanisha C. Wright

Follow the Signs, LLC

Copyright

This is a work of non-fiction. Some names, identities, and circumstances have been changed in order to protect the integrity of the various individuals and corporations involved. The dialogues come from my keen recollection, are not written to represent word-for-word documentation, and are retold in a manner that evokes the emotion of the mood of the events.

Copyright © 2015 by La Tanisha C. Wright

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, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information and inquiries, address Follow the Signs, LLC, PO Box 18772, Atlanta, GA 31126.

ISBN 978-1-365-14345-8

www.Follow-the-Signs.com

Dedication

For my children someday and their descendants thereafter, I put my love into this book.

To my mother and brothers, I love you unconditionally and always will.

To my adversaries, may God heal you so that you can be a blessing to others.

Psalm 23. God bless.

Suicidal – July 16, 2004

You have the worst goddamn luck of anyone I know, La Tanisha, my boss said as she plopped down on my living room couch and pulled out a pack of Pall Mall Mild cigarettes. And will it kill you to open the blinds and let some sunshine in?

Megan, please don’t smoke in here. I turned on a lamp and tossed my company car keys on the glass coffee table in front of her.

She sucked her teeth and smirked. Your concussion must’ve made you forget you work for Big Tobacco.

I sat on the ottoman and watched her light the cigarette anyway. Fucking bitch, I thought, cutting my eyes at her. I took a white envelope full of cash and two credit cards from the coffee table. I counted five thousand dollars aloud and placed it in her hands. Cash contingency fund. PHH card. Visa card.

Megan used a ‘temporary leave’ checklist to mark the items off one by one. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaled deeply through her nostrils, and reviewed the document carefully before signing it and handing it to me. I need your signature.

I quickly scribbled my name and stood up as I handed it to her. I could not wait for her to leave so I could go back to bed.

Here’s your copy, she said, ripping off the carbon duplicate and giving it to me. Do you have any questions regarding your short-term disability? Remember: You’ll only get paid fifty-percent of your regular pay during this time.

Got it, I said, slowly making my way towards the front door.

I hope you feel better, she said, looking at me from head to toe.

I looked straight through her, opened the door, and watched her go. I didn’t say good-bye as I closed the door. She didn’t like me, and I wasn’t going to pretend to like her.

My living room reeked of smoke. I tossed the copy of the temporary leave checklist to the floor, returned to my bedroom, closed the door, crawled into bed, and covered my head with pillows.

Is it true the ribs can tell the kick of a beast from a lover’s fist? poses poet Maya Angelou in A Kind of Love Some Say. In agony, alone in my apartment, I knew the answer: Yes. My bruised bones recorded it well, recognized its identity—deception. It crept through my veins and into my soul, and after it had gone as far as it could, it raped me repeatedly.

It was only the beginning of a resurrection of ghosts and raw, suppressed memories. I was forced into an abysmal, sweeping state of impaired reality, destructive thoughts of rejection, and marred trust. There was no peace as I devolved from one level of heartache to the next.

Nobody loves me. Bad things keep happening. Who the hell can I trust? Nobody. If I kill myself, who will care? Who will know? I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life.

It was July 16, 2004, a beautiful Friday afternoon in Atlanta, Georgia. With the exception of answering the door, I had been in bed all day. The only people I had spoken with were my pastor, the Douglas County assistant district attorney, and Megan. I rolled out of bed and wiped the tears that had collected in my eyes. It had been twenty days since the incident. I dealt with the physical pain every single day, but now the emotional pain emerged. It was too much to bear. It wasn’t the first time that I had been abused.

I grabbed three bottles of prescription pills off my nightstand and returned to the living room. I slid to the floor in front of the couch and emptied fifty-nine pills of five milligram hydrocodone, forty-six pills of eight-hundred milligram Ibuprofen, and twenty-six pills of eight-hundred milligram Skelaxin on the coffee table. I sat there for hours.

The parking lot’s yellow lights created a dim mimicry of shadows cast by the sun, which now slowly crept away from every corner of the living room. My life seemed cursed. I was desperate, my mind ravaged by flashbacks.

1983. Underneath a swaying weeping willow, standing unyielding and poised, my two older brothers, Jeremiah and Jeston, and I played a game. This game was my favorite pastime, and the tree, in front of our father’s church, granted us cool refuge from the Texas summer sun. As the only girl and the youngest, I was always the most embellished with my little Sunday dresses—with the great big bow tied in the back and the ruffled skirt, over-expanded with a rough petticoat. The thick, itchy tights left an uncomfortable gap at my crotch and granny sag at my ankles.

I sat in a chair underneath the tree. I removed my shoes and yanked at my tights toes until they were smooth enough to neatly fold underneath my feet. Then I slid my little toes back into my black patent leather shoes before I took off playing again.

I covered my eyes and hid my face in the bark of the tree. I yelled out ice in the glass several times as the patter of my brothers’ footsteps and their shouting voices quickly faded in different directions with responses of Kool Aid! We laughed, ran, and played with the warm wind blowing in our faces so hard that my satin hair ribbons came untied. Before long, I was right back in the chair, fixing my ribbons and pulling at my tights to ensure that I stayed neat for my mother. My brothers continued to wildly play.

Dad was a model Airman in the United States Air Force. He was also a Baptist minister, well respected in the church and community. He was always the last one out of the church. He locked all of the doors behind him, then walked over to Mom and smiled as he handed her his ministerial robe and Bible. Then he chased all of us kids underneath that willow tree. He ran in slow motion before reaching out to capture me, and while he held me in his arms, laughing and spinning me around in circles, he kissed me and whispered, That’s Daddy’s little girl! He hugged me tight before putting me down. I dizzily ran for my mother’s waiting, extended hand.

Later that afternoon, Dad got drunk and tore the house up. He dragged Mom around the house by her ankles. He raped her in front of his children. I was four. Close the door, she whimpered. Baby, please! Momma’s okay. It’s all right. Close the door. Later that year, Jeston, my brother closer to me in age, mocked our father’s violent behavior. He yelled, he shoved, he threw things, and I ended up with a broken arm and a bruised eye.

1984. My parent’s divorce was finalized. Mom packed us up and moved us out of Daddy’s house on the Air Force base and into a small apartment in a low-income community.

Daddy’s drinking intensified. He was permitted weekend visits. One weeknight, he popped up at the apartment wanting to say goodnight to his children. He smelled of liquor. He kissed me inappropriately. I was five. The next day, I went to school confused. I didn’t have any friends. I was the only Black child in my kindergarten class at a predominately White, mid-to-high socioeconomic status elementary school. I seemed to be the only poor kid. The other kids didn’t like me because I was Black. They threw sand in my face every day because my hair had grease in it. I got in trouble because of it at home, and eventually my teacher prohibited me from the playground because I made the other kids cause too much trouble.

One evening, Dad came to the apartment drunk. He kicked the door in. We were afraid. We ran upstairs to Momma’s bedroom. Mom begged Jeston to call the police. He did not understand what was going on and cried as he held the phone. He was seven. Jeremiah was eleven, and he understood our crisis. He stood in front of Mom while she held me in her arms. Dad aimed a gun at us and pulled the trigger. Jeremiah didn’t flinch. The gun jammed. Dad leaned against the bedroom door and slid to the floor. He held the gun loosely in his hands and sobbed.

Later that year, I was asleep in my dad’s bed. A warm beam of morning sunshine from his bedroom window woke me. I wiped my eyes. The first thing I saw was Dad’s smile—he had just gotten out of the shower and smelled like the blue and white soap. He stood over me. There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had never felt before as he tied his white shower robe shut.

We ate sausage and eggs for breakfast. He gave me a red vitamin that I thought was chewable like the Flintstones Momma gave me, but it wasn’t, it was disgusting. Afterwards, he helped me into my dress so we could go to church. Then he gave me a purple icy out of the freezer and told me to go outside and play with my brothers. Don’t get your dress dirty, he said.

The night before, the dim lamp on the nightstand woke me. The bedroom was filled with the smell of his cologne. The time on the clock was one-five-two.

Daddy, where you going? I asked sleepily.

He smiled. To play cards with friends. He tucked his shirt into his jeans. I’ll be back. Go back to sleep, little girl.

‘Kay, nite-nite, I said, hugging my Cabbage Patch doll.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite, he said, pulling the covers over me and turning off the lamp.

When I woke the second time, the parking lot light dimly illuminated the room. I wondered where my Cabbage Patch doll was—I wondered why my panties were pulled down. Dad was home. I slowly turned and looked over my right shoulder. I smelled liquor.

I closed my eyes and tried to shake the thoughts from my head, but I could not. I covered my face with my hands. Without a sound, the tears flowed with a pain so intense that they soaked through the cracks between my fingers within a matter of seconds.

One of his hands held down my panties, and the other held his—

I looked at his face. His eyes were closed. I glanced down at the toothpick in his mouth. He always had one, but I don’t remember him ever sleeping with one.

…a burning wetness and pain—Daddy! I whimpered. Daddy! I cried. Tears streamed down my face. Daddy?

Complete silence.

I have to use it… Daddy, I have to use the bathroom, okay?

I angrily shook my head and removed my sopping hands from my face. I cried so hard that one of my contact lenses fell out of my eye.

Daddy never responded.

I slid out of the bed. When my toes touched the floor, I pulled my panties up, tightly pulled my gown down, and walked into the room where Jeremiah and Jeston slept. It was dark. I tapped Jeremiah on the arm with one hand and held his pinky finger with the other. He didn’t wake up. Something wet dribbled down my leg. I locked myself in the bathroom. I watched slow drops of blood drip into the toilet water.

Soon after, Dad was stationed out of the country. I didn’t tell my mother until years later.

1985. Jeremiah has always been one of my best friends. He took my parents’ divorce and my father moving out of the country very hard. He started to get into trouble, hanging with the wrong crowd. He started stealing little things at first: candy, cookies, and toys for me to play with. Then he started to steal cars.

1986. My father returned to the United States, moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and remarried. Shortly after, my mother sent Jeremiah to live with him. He was too much for her to handle, and just like that, my best friend was gone.

1987. I was in the third grade. I was nine years old. I was no longer the only Black student at my school. There was one other named Tina Jones. I loved her. In the middle of the school year, a drunk driver struck the vehicle she was traveling in. The accident killed her entire family and left her paralyzed from the waist down and severely brain damaged.

1988. I was in fourth grade and ten years old. My mother began dating a White man named Brian. They fell in love. Got married. He bought her a house, and we went from living in a poor community to a mid-income neighborhood. I went from having two older brothers to having five—three were White. Interracial dating was not accepted. As a result, I was bullied at school and was hit with raw eggs a few times. Our family was terrorized by neighbors who didn’t believe races should mix.

Brian had a drinking problem. He would get drunk and become belligerent. Sometimes, he was mean to my mother and Jeston. Jeston never liked him. I tried to, but it was difficult. His intoxicated babble made me just as uncomfortable as Dad’s. One day, we went to my grandparent’s house. The house was crowded, there was nowhere for me to sit, so Momma told me to sit in Brian’s lap. I didn’t want to. She didn’t want me to sit on the floor, and insisted. He guided me to sit down, and as soon as my butt touched his lap, I freaked out. I cried like someone was beating me with an extension cord. He hugged me tight to calm me. That made it worse. I could feel his penis, although not erect. As I fought to get out of Brian’s lap, Momma tried her best to make me stop crying. My grandfather heard my cries from outside. He rushed in and said, I’ve never seen her like this before. He didn’t like Brian, either, and scowled at him like he was the devil as he pulled me off his lap. Come on, baby. Ride with Big Daddy to the store.

I dragged myself off the floor and limped into the kitchen, now sobbing heavily as I remembered my eleventh year.

1989. Jeremiah was in New Mexico dealing with his own problems. Dad was physically abusive to him. One time he beat him so bad he broke his jaw. After that beating, my brother joined a gang. My father found out and kicked him out the house. He was homeless for a while.

That spring, I told my mom and Brian about Dad molesting me. Two or three months later, the house that Brian had built for Momma on the better side of Fort Worth was ready, and we moved in by the end of May. Momma encouraged me to forgive Dad over the phone. I did.

By the first weekend of June, Momma put me and Jeston on a plane to Albuquerque. Only two weeks, she said. I tried to be strong for her, but I didn’t understand why she would send me to Dad after I told her what he had done. I looked out of the window from my first-class seat and watched her wave good-bye from the terminal window. I cried so loud that the steward had to console me.

The same spirit of suicide that was lingering about my living room now, sporadically made visits to me then, while in New Mexico.

Summer, 1989. Often while riding in the back seat of Dad’s car, I wanted to open the door and jump out while he drove down the highway. I figured the impact of me hitting the ground would kill me, but I was also smart enough to know that if it didn’t, I’d be handicapped for the rest of my life.

One morning while my younger stepsister and I waited in the bathtub for my stepmother, Linda, to return with soap, he stepped in. He slid a bar into the tub and smiled, saying, Ivory, the soap that floats. I didn’t want him to see me naked.

Two weeks turned into two months. I wrote a letter to Linda telling her that Dad molested me when I was six and that I was ready to go home. She had two daughters of her own and timidly approached him, showing him the letter.

He denied it ever happened and turned to Jeston, who was thirteen at the time, and suggested, Me and your sister never slept in the same room, now did we? Jeston knew that ever since the divorce, whenever we would go to Dad’s two bedroom apartment, the boys would sleep in one room and I slept in Dad’s bed with Dad. Jeston considered Dad a superhero and shook his head no.

I don’t understand why Linda accepted this, but even as a little girl, I knew there was something about her. Call me Momma, she insisted. Behind her sweet smile shined a malevolence, and although she never harmed me, the darkness in her eyes revealed a story that I could not quite comprehend. I was stuck in that damn house until August 29, the day after school started. It had been three months. Three long months.

I leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment before reaching for a large cup out of the cabinet. I set it in the sink, turned on the faucet, and watched it fill with water.

2000. Charleston, South Carolina. I forgave Dad once again for what he had done to me as a young girl. Once again, he denied everything but said, Well, I don’t remember that, but I’m sorry if it happened. Although Dad denied it, I gave him one last chance to be a father before I moved on with my life. And I did move on, only to fall into a pattern of dating horrible men, like Lathan.

I turned off the faucet. The cup, which was perhaps forty-four ounces, was too heavy for me to lift. Torn muscles. Bruised hands. My tears fell and tapped the aluminum sink’s surface as I stared at the cup.

2001. It was around four AM on the third of May. Lathan towered over me at six-six and at least three hundred pounds. We were arguing at the top of the stairwell inside my apartment. There were three large hickies on his neck. He was yelling, spitting, and pointing in my face. He yelled, Get rid of it!

He was a recent college graduate, a star athlete with NFL potential. I was a broke school teacher, pregnant with his child from holes he poked in the condom. After realizing that a pregnancy would not keep me in Charleston, he found another girlfriend. I hated Charleston, living there, and planned to leave after the school year ended.

He grabbed my wrist and flung me down thirteen steps before I hit the wall that turned the stairwell. And with blood dripping from my mouth and in between my legs, I dragged myself down the bottom three as he stomped down the stairs after me. He pulled me by my legs into the kitchen, got a soiled dishrag from the sink, and violently cleaned me up while I cried on the floor. He noticed the vaginal bleeding and growled, Good, and rushed to the clothes basket next to the front door and dumped it out. All of the folded laundry that I had brought in from the laundromat the night before was scattered on the floor. Put these on! he hollered, throwing panties and a skirt down to the floor. Before I could fully dress, he picked me up, shoved me into the car, and threw the soiled dishrag at me. Hold it to your lip! he yelled, slamming the door.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the desolate, dark parking lot of the abortion clinic. I didn’t try to fight back. I didn’t care anymore and didn’t want his baby to begin with—how horrible to think that I didn’t want a baby that was growing inside of me—I was so irresponsible and careless with the type of men I allowed into my life.

Out of the ninety-eight percent of women that don’t remember the process of the abortion after being sedated, I had to be in the two percent that did. The sounds, the vacuum sounds, the clacking of the doctor’s metal tools, and the pressure in my uterus. My womb a tomb. The regret.

After the procedure, I was placed in a room full of recliners, full of women of all different races, ages, and socioeconomic backgrounds. They were all zombies, some were crying. I watched them. I couldn’t catch my breath. Then a nurse brought over a paper bag for me to breathe into… and then a cup of juice and cookies.

Are you ‘kay? a heavily sedated young woman sitting in the recliner next to me asked. Don’ cry, ‘kay? ‘Kay?

The waiting room was packed with pregnant women as I exited… You need to stop crying or you’ll scare the others! a middle-aged Black nurse yelled, tugging at my arm.

I yanked away. Get off me! They’re already scared. I glanced around the room, then scowled at her. And who are you to tell me to stop crying? You don’t know me. You don’t know me! I sobbed. A young White nurse took my hand and helped me out the front door.

I left the cup of water in the sink and walked back over to the couch. I sat down on the floor next to the pills and scooped up as many as I could into my t-shirt.

The young nurse observed my distress and whispered to Lathan, She’ll be experiencing some hormonal imbalances over the next few days as her body returns to its natural state. She’ll most likely go through a deep depression, so you’ll need to sit with her, watch after her. She gripped one of my arms, he the other, and they escorted me to the car.

The sun had risen. It shined brightly, and I squinted as I looked past the parking lot and out to the street. A cool breeze. Indistinct shouting, chanting, shouting, chanting. Pro-life protesters were marching. Graphic picket signs displayed photographs of bloody, undeveloped babies with half of their faces smashed in. One conveyed a tiny, bloody baby torso detached from its tiny arms, hands, and fingers. I began to hyperventilate again. My undeserved breaths of life.

The nurse looked into my eyes and then down at my swollen lip. Her eyes returned to mine with sympathy that only a woman who had been through something similar could feel. It was as if she had seen Lathan fling me down the stairs. Honey, the baby wasn’t developed. It was ‘tissue’ about this size, she explained, while measuring about a half an inch on her pinky finger. And you were bleeding when you came in here, honey. You probably would have lost the baby anyway. She wiped my face. Sir, she said turning and looking up at Lathan, I had an abortion last year; I was just like her. She might experience suicidal thoughts so if you care anything about her, make sure someone is with her for the next few days. Call her friends or family, or somebody—don’t leave her alone.

I stumbled to my feet with most of the pills in my shirt. I slowly returned to the kitchen sink.

Just breathe into the bag. You have to breathe; you know how to breathe, La! Lathan said, as if now regretful of his rage. When we stopped at the first traffic light he turned to me and said, I’m sorry for everything. I am sorry for last night… today. I made a mistake taking you there.

When we arrived at my apartment, he helped me up the stairs that he had thrown me down just hours earlier. He took me straight to the bathroom, took off my clothes, and helped me into the shower. He watched me as I stood there. I watched the blood from the abortion flow down my legs, through my toes, and in a perfect trail, down the drain, along with my womanhood and dignity.

I dumped the pills on the counter and began to arrange them from smallest to largest.

He put me in the bed and covered me with the comforter. I’ll lock the bottom lock from the inside.

He left. There was no one for me to call. I hallucinated all night long and dreamed about nursing the corpse of a baby boy that looked just like Lathan. When I woke, I contemplated slitting my wrists, but couldn’t find a blade sharp enough to do it.

I began to cry, and reached for the cordless phone sitting on the kitchen counter. I called my mother. I spoke with her a few days after the incident. Well, he didn’t just hit you for no reason, La Tanisha! What did you do to him? she said. I hoped that this conversation would be better. It had to be.

The phone rang twice before she answered. The background blared with Jeston and his wife’s laughter.

Mom, I cried.

Hey, baby. How are you feeling? Any better?

No. I sniffled.

What did the doctor say?

I can’t work for a while.

You need to hurry up and get better so you can go back to work, she insisted.

Well, I can’t until I get better! I said, growing agitated.

Your brother is asking for the phone. Keep your doors locked and no matter what, don’t have any contact with that stupid boy! And don’t be trying to fight no men!

I huffed in disbelief. Fight? Mom, there was no fight.

Jeston jumped on the phone. Well, he didn’t just hit you for no reason, La Tanisha! What were y’all doing before he hit you?

I didn’t do anything to make him attack me!

You must’ve done something! Jeston insisted.

I didn’t! I looked at the pills on the counter.

Well, you need to move back home. Back to Texas!

I shook my head, once again, in disbelief. "What difference would it make if this happened here or in Fort Worth? You haven’t called me since I moved to Atlanta a year ago—Mom told you what happened! Why haven’t you called me?"

Man, you need to check yourself into a mental hospital!

I hung up and trembled horribly as I scooped several pills of hydrocodone. Shortly after, I forced several large gulps of water. Water dripped from my chin and down into my shirt. Several moments passed and I felt a strong sense of depersonalization and loss of control.

I hate my life. No one believed me when I told them about being molested, so why would they believe me now?

My stomach soured, and I grew dizzy. I wanted to talk to Jeremiah. I needed him, but there was no way we could talk. He was in prison.

One day, I told Momma how much it bothers me when I think about what Dad did to me. Just don’t think about it, she responded.

I revealed my suicidal thoughts to her when I was seventeen after a male classmate violently attacked me at school for turning down a date with him. She said, My life will go on whether you’re dead or alive. She closed my bedroom door and left me alone with the bottle of pills that I clutched in my hand. She didn’t reach out to talk to me, help me work through my thoughts. She didn’t ask me why I felt that way. The truth was that I never wanted to poison myself to death. I just desperately wanted the hurt to go away.

I staggered back into the living room and looked at the empty medicine bottles with an overwhelming sense of hollowness. I fell down face forward on the couch. I began sweating profusely and saw little black specks everywhere. I grew cold with chills. I wished I would have provoked my ex to hurt me, that way I could rationalize his violence, but I didn’t even have that. I wondered if suicide would be judged an act of selfishness, if no one cared. It would be days, even weeks, before anyone found my body.

Just as I dozed off, I heard footsteps running up the stairwell outside. Then came heavy pounds at my door. I picked the empty bottles up, stumbled to the bar counter, laid the bottles down, and then staggered to the door’s peephole. It was my longtime friend Micale. He was one of the few people who knew about the incident. I hesitated to open the door. He knocked again. I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt before I opened the door.

I know you said you need your space, Micale said softly as he entered and closed the door.

I held my stomach as I staggered back to the couch and sat down.

Look, I picked up some Epson Salt for you to bathe in and some soup—I mean, I was going to put the bag on your doorstep and leave, but I felt like something was wrong. He looked at me with sad eyes.

I began to cry and hyperventilate uncontrollably. I leaned over and tightly held my head. Micale noticed a few pills on the floor near the kitchen and hurried over to the empty bottles on the bar.

Where are the rest of the pills? he asked, noticing the trembling in my hands. He rushed over to the couch, and then searched around the room. Where are the rest, La Tanisha?

I began to cry as Micale, in a panicked state-of-mind, rushed into the kitchen and found the pills on the kitchen counter.

Oh, God! You didn’t? You didn’t take—you didn’t take any? He dashed over to me, his eyes bloodshot with worry. He observed my face and pulled down my eyelids and looked. He wiped the sweat from my face and then lifted my shirt and ran his hand down my back.

Did you take any pills? he asked firmly.

I shook my head no and continued to cry.

He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom. He climbed into the bed with me nestled in his arms. He rocked me. He breathed slowly and rubbed his fingers through my hair. This is my fault. He rubbed his eyes as if they were burning, then looked up to the ceiling for a moment. When his eyes returned to mine, a tear rolled down his cheek. I’m sorry, La. I’m sorry this happened.

I didn’t take any, I groaned.

Okay, he panted, pulling the comforter over my shoulder. I’m here for you. You’re not alone, okay?

I didn’t have to tell him why I contemplated suicide; he already knew. I couldn’t understand how he could possibly feel so strongly about me when no one else did.

La Tanisha, you have this strength that sets you apart from every other person that I’ve ever known. You are well in tune to what you need to do to heal, but I think you should talk to a psychologist. I know an older woman named—

You think I’m crazy, just like Jeston, I croaked, trying to move away from him.

He held me tight and said, "No. You have clearly suffered a trauma, so you might need to talk to someone about it… and if you need meds to help you sleep or