Memoir: The Ghost I Became

I was seventeen, sitting alone on the edge of a narrow, rusty train track stretched across an old stone bridge. Early morning mist curled down from the peak of the Appalachian mountains, damp and heavy as it clung to my skin, creeping through the worn fabric of my favorite Green Day shirt. Below, the North Fork Kentucky River winded like a dark ribbon, carrying fragments of childhood memories of my ancestors and myself as it flowed silently under my feet. Sharp air clung to me, layered with the scent of wet pine and the faint hum of waking birds — a chorus vivid and alive, yet oblivious to my presence. My thumb poked through the frayed hole in my sleeve’s cuff, tracing the worn metal rail; rough and biting against my skin, anchoring me to that moment, that place. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, settling deeply in my chest and filling every hollow space within me. I had never imagined reaching adulthood. In an odd way, that certainty was a comfort, sparing me from the weight of an unknown future. But as time crept, I found myself hoping for a train to come, to sweep me away, carrying me beyond this life.

Growing up, I was always on the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. Watching others lead what I was taught to believe was a ‘normal’ life, I felt myself slipping further away. When I was fourteen, my mother left me at my distant father’s house and told me I’d be staying. The tracks suddenly felt wider, the gap between me and everyone else stretching even further. Everything about my father and his world felt foreign. I clung to her, dropping to my knees, begging her to take me with her. My final attempt to hold on was a note, folded into the familiar triangle pattern we used in school, which I slipped into her back pocket before she walked away. I watched from my father’s bedroom window as she drove away, her words lingering in the air like the sound of a door closing, leaving only silence behind. In that moment, I fully grasped the weight of abandonment. I felt truly alone, as though everyone around me could come and go without warning.

School offered no escape, and by high school, I had become a master of hiding every part of myself that didn’t fit neatly into societal expectations. Shortly before I dropped out, I found a small light in my first girlfriend. Like a cliché, we met on the back of the bus, both of us barely hanging on and searching for something we couldn’t seem to find. She would tell me about her dream of starting a life in California one day, somewhere far beyond the suffocating boundaries of our hometown. For the first time, I felt less alone, as though someone could see beyond the walls built around our life. We kept our relationship hidden from our families, knowing the hell it would bring if they found out. But an older man — someone who had inserted himself into our social circle by ‘dating’ a friend of ours — printed screenshots of our MySpace profiles and delivered them to her mother’s workplace, shattering the fragile safety we’d managed to build around ourselves. She had planned to stay with me that weekend, and part of me still wonders what his true intentions were, as though exposing us gave him a twisted sense of power.

Soon after, her parents stormed into my apartment, grabbed her, and dragged her out to their vehicle. I remember their shouting — violent words of disgust and disapproval that have since blurred in my memory, yet remain etched there all the same. By Monday, we learned they had moved her in with an aunt and transferred her to a new school, ripping her from her life as though she had committed a crime. We tried to stay in touch through whispered phone calls, but I couldn’t bear the thought that even speaking to me put her at risk. Watching her parents drive away with her, I felt more than just loss — I felt a sharp confirmation that the world wasn’t made for people like me, that any connection I found would be broken or taken from me. Each loss layered upon the last, building walls that felt unbreakable, as though I were meant to be hidden, unseen.

I felt the rough edges of the rock wall digging into my heels as they dangled over the side of the bridge. A small rock slipped from beneath me, cascading down to the river — five long seconds before the faint, distant plop echoed up from the water. The bridge was wide open, with no rails or barriers — just an endless drop to the river below, the kind of openness I craved in my own life but could never quite reach. Sharp, bitter notes of burnt rubber filled the air, likely drifting over from a nearby tire shop. My mother’s voice echoed faintly, a memory of her old warning to stay off the tracks — a warning she’d likely heard from her own parents growing up on the wrong side of them. But here I was, alone on the edge, carrying thoughts and demons no one else knew, praying for a train. I didn’t know the schedule. This wasn’t Amtrak territory; this was a coal town — these were freight trains. I hadn’t planned it down to the last detail; I just knew that if a train came barreling down, I wouldn’t try to outrun it… it hadn’t even crossed my mind.

Suspended between living and leaving, I felt the hollow space within me, drifting with nothing to anchor it. Beneath the numbness, anger simmered… a familiar undercurrent, tangled with every ‘why’ that had filled my life. My uncle’s ex-wife prodded at me as a child for asking ‘why’ so often. I vaguely remember her getting me a book about the ‘why’s’ of the world, but the why’s that kept me up at night weren’t why the sky was blue, or why the stars shine. She didn’t understand me, but everyone is dealt different ACEs. My ‘why’s’ were why was I so different, why I couldn’t love a girl, why nothing about me was ever ‘right’ for anyone. I wondered if people would regret the things they’d said about me, if the ones who bullied me would feel the weight of what they’d done, if the people who looked past me would finally see me when I was gone, if they’d ask why, too.

In the silence, faint thoughts flickered to life, images just out of reach. I thought of my old girlfriend and the way she’d dream about leaving this place, about building a life that felt like her own. I wondered how she was doing now. It wasn’t her I was longing for — I knew that. I was longing for the kind of future she’d made me believe could be possible. Was there a version of me out there, somewhere, who was happy? I imagined him: someone who carried my experiences, my pain, my grief, and my lessons. Someone who ‘got it,’ who felt real and unapologetically, authentically himself. For a moment, I saw him — his face, his voice, the things he might tell me. But I knew someone like that couldn’t exist — not in this world. The image faded as quickly as it appeared, slipping away like water through my fingers, but I held onto the thought, carrying this ghost with me. Moments drifted slowly, each one stretching longer than the last, and the tracks remained empty. Eventually, the cold seeped deeper into my skin, and the numbness gave way to exhaustion. I climbed up, more out of fatigue than intention, as though the numbness was loosening its grip, leaving a faint space for choice.

Walking home that night, I didn’t feel relieved. I didn’t feel hopeful, or like I’d had a breakthrough moment. There wasn’t some big realization pulling me forward — just one small thought I hadn’t had before: the lingering image of that person I’d imagined. He’d appeared as a fleeting vision on the bridge, yet something about him stayed with me. He seemed strong enough to carry the weight of being different and resilient enough to live not just through it, but in spite of it. He felt fatherly — a feeling unfamiliar to me. I didn’t really believe he could exist; in fact, I was fairly certain he couldn’t. But maybe, just for that night, he was enough. Enough to provide comfort. Enough to keep me here, just for now, holding on in the quiet, moving forward slowly, with no promises — just ‘enough’ to stay.

Looking back on that day on the bridge, I realize now it was only the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead me here. I didn’t know it then, but there were strengths within me waiting to be uncovered — character, courage, vulnerability, defiance, stubbornness, humor in the face of pain, and even a sense of justice I never lost when the world around me felt unkind. Those qualities carried me, one step at a time, through years of learning not just how to survive, but how to live. Today, I find grounding in the simple routines that once felt out of reach. I’m a father, watching my children grow and change, witnessing their laughter and the way they explore the world with curiosity. I find stability in our home, where my animals age beside me — a stability I never had growing up.

In these quiet, everyday moments, I find a sense of peace I didn’t know was possible. I’ve learned that ‘self-care’ is often misunderstood and overrated, far from the quick fixes people expect — it’s not a prescription, and it rarely looks the same for everyone. For me, it’s in small, everyday acts: drinking a cold glass of water, preparing a warm meal, the smell of fresh herbs and butter blooming in a hot cast iron pan, standing up for a stranger, bringing a plant back to life. Each act honors the life I’ve built and the journey it took to get here.

I went back to school as an adult and became the first in my family to earn a degree. I discovered that one of the best ways I serve myself is through serving others, and I have spent nearly ten years working in the mental health field. Today, I work at a suicide prevention and crisis hotline for young people, spending my days listening to stories that resonate with experiences from my own past. They’re finding their way, navigating a world that doesn’t always make room for them. I am here to listen, offering support as they discover their own direction. In their voices, I hear echoes of who I was, and each day, I show up for them as the person I needed back then — the person I once thought couldn’t exist. I’ve come to realize that I can be that person I needed when I was younger, for myself as much as for others.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see him — the ghost I once imagined. He feels both unfamiliar, with my face etched by new lines, and deeply familiar, as a reflection of every step that brought me here. It’s taken time to understand, but I realize now he was never a ghost at all. He was me — the future I couldn’t see from where I stood back then. I’m becoming the person I needed all along, the person I always had the strength to become. In that process, I find hope — hope that the life I’m building, however unexpected, has room for all of me and room for those who need me. Each line on my face, each sign of aging, is a testament to the boy who braved those early days, the boy who carried me here to see this moment. For all the times I nearly let go, I’m here. I don’t plan too far ahead, but I think about the life I want to keep building — the life I never thought possible. I think of my children and the lives they’ll create, of my partner and their journey, of my mother and her path to recovery, and of the community I’ve built with others who share these lived experiences. They ground me, offering the strength I once sought alone. I belong here — not as a shadow or a ghost, but as someone who has claimed his place. I stand on the other side of everything I thought would break me, anchored in the life I’ve fought to build, and ready for what comes next.