The story of my Life
It's funny, how they say everyone's got a guardian angel. Mine sure as hell wasn't around when I needed him.
To go from start to finish with my woeful tale would take hours. So maybe I'll just give you the basics.
I'm a depressed 14 year old girl. Yup, that's me. The one who can go to an all time high to an all time low in the space of five seconds. I'm the one who always feels unloved, the one who everybody in the family hates because no one wants to deal with an unhappy child. They'd all just rather live in a happy world with their perfect family and go on in bliss and forget the teenage daughter.
So, that's me. The one who only gets attention when I do something wrong or I have to do something. The one who watches from the shadows, always consumed by jelousy. The one who has "problems."
And this is the story of my life.
My mom and dad got divorced, like so many people do these days. I, a perfectly innocent child, living in my perfectly naive bliss, loved both my parents and never thought there was anything wrong with my daddy being a drunk and my mommy being a lunatic. I just thought that all the people who wanted to talk to me and give me candy were nice and liked me.
But then I changed.
Growing up, I was voilent. I had terrible tantrums. I was, early on, a "problem child." My mom had custody of me. She raised me to hate my dad and pretty much everybody in the world.
But I ended up hating her instead.
She married again, another asshole who I hated. I also got two younger half brothers in the course of the next few years, who I couldn't stand when I lived with them but still loved and adored.
Meanwhile, my dad also got hitched. To some fat stuck up bitch who liked me about as much as a maid likes dog shit on the floor, which, needless to say, isn't much. From that, I got an older step brother, an older step sister, another older step brother, and a new lil half brother who, at the time, was on the way.
Mom's mental illness started kicking in. She would lock herself in her room and cry for hours. She got rings under her eyes. During the day, she was a supermom. But she was paranoid. I couldn't go anywhere, I couldn't do anything, because if I did, "they" would get me.
During that jolly time my other family moved to Colorado and adopted a baby girl. So now I had another addition to my family.
But things got bad with mom. She took me and my brothers out of school and started looking around for another house. She and my step dad got divorced and she was about to run with us, but my dad came and took my away. I was 11.
So, here I am. My mom isn't even considered my mom anymore. She lost all of her parental rights, and I'm stuck out here. Unfortunately.
I went from one bad place to another, except this one was worse. My dad is still an alchoholic and no one likes me. One of my older step brothers died on the way to visit me with the rest of my family one year, so my step mom kinda blames me.
No one likes me here. The first time my dad hit me, I was 12. Now he hits me whenever he feels like it, and I hate him, along with everyone in my family. They know he hits me but they just sit there and watch. They don't care if I'm crying and they always make me feel like I'm not good enough. I hate them.
They always make me clean the house and I never get to see my friends. They're always yelling at me and hitting me, like the only way they feel good is when they make my cry.
My dad never tells me he loves me unless he's drunk. He never hugs me. No one does. In fact, today he told me he hated me.
But I don't cry anymore. You see, I took to hurting myself. The feel of a knife in my hand and the stinging sensation and the blood is always satisfying. Now, whenever I do cry, the tears mingle with my blood. I won't cry in front of them. It gives them too much satisfaction.
My best friend killed himself. And he called me right before it happened. And I couldn't stop him. Now everyone in his family and pretty much everybody in general hates me and blames me.
Maybe I'm like my mother. Maybe I'm crazy. But they made me that way. And all I want to do is end my life.
I don't know why I wrote this. Maybe I just want someone to tell me it's okay, someone to tell me not kill myself. Maybe I just wanted someone to know my little story, to know this little nobody's sad life.
Or maybe I'm just crazy.