Writing about my trauma, in a healthy literature style

 I used to like the silence, it used to be comforting to me. Just laying in my room, looking up at the ceiling, the only sounds coming from the old bush outside, maybe the sound of my parents arguing. But now, I can't stand it. If it's too silent, I start thinking about what I was forced to endure. I can feel the horrors of my past slowly wrapping their arms around me, their past stories whispering in my ear, the familiar sense of dread softly caressing my face as I stand there. I can feel my father's arms wrapping around my chest, feeling something I didn't develop fast enough for him to take advantage of. I can feel Spencer slowly wrapping his arms over my eyes, making sure I can't see his friends slowly wrapping each of their arms around my limbs. I can feel the bloodied hands of the people I failed to keep close to me slowly wrapping around my neck, a sense of abandonment that suffocates me whenever I think about it. I look down at my hands, seeing the dark red stain of blood lingering on my fingertips and slowly dripping down to my wrists. My mind spirals like a tornado, showing me one painful memory after the other. I feel my body shaking, I feel my eyes failing me as the shadows of my room twist and maneuver around in ways they're not supposed to, I feel my lungs slowly collapsing as my mind reminds me that most of the people I call my friends are most likely only using me for their entertainment, I feel dark gushed of blood dripping down my neck, I feel my body get colder and colder, I reach for something sharp to stop it all. But then I hesitate, I ask myself if it's worth it. "I'm supposed to be clean, almost 3 years." I said to myself, thinking of how happy my mother was when she learned I was 2 years clean. I remember how her eyes lit up when I showed her the milestone, how her face quickly contorted into a sense of joy I don't often get to see of her anymore. I remember how my brother had this sense of sympathy, as if he saw something in me that reminded him of something bittersweet. I start sitting down, my body slowly pressing against the chair as I start thinking about what they would think of me. How my friends would be shocked if they find out what I did, how my mom would probably just cry, how my brother would stand there wondering how I let myself fail. I just can't hurt them, not like this. I take that sharp item and just throw it away from me, my hands shaking as I hear it crash against something in the mess of my room. But I'm not crying, not once did I feel a tear run down my face. I look at my hands, the same pale skin I see every day, no blood to be seen. I look at my cat, his round body and his black and white fur, I softly reach down to pet him. I grab my headphones, putting them on and moving my hair out of the way. I open the laptop and pull up some of my favorite music, I put it at a volume that isn't quiet, but doesn't make my ears bleed. Finally, I have a break. I sometimes still think about my life, but with the music it's not as painful. I reach for my phone, I see one of my friends texted me, so I talk to them for a while. Finally, I feel at peace. And soon, I relax once more. I almost laugh, thinking about how ridiculous I probably looked. But, it's better than ruining my own progress. I lean back and sigh, thinking about how I'm gonna explain this to my therapist. I recline back in my chair, realizing I should probably get some rest.