Fighting To Exist

Emo kids. Everyone looks down on them. No one bothers to understand them. Everyone thinks they're a joke. Posers. Whiners. People who just want attention and will do anything to get it. Their feelings aren't real. When they're sad, it's all just an act. When they're mad, it's just dramatics. But I feel for them. I understand them. I don't look down on them. And I definitely don't think they're a joke.

That's because I am one.

An Emo kid.

Think what you want. I didn't always used to be this way. I used to have blond hair and dress preppy. I never used to have a care in the world. I was happy. I was content. My family was great. My friends cared about me. Or at least I thought they did.

It all started when I caught my best friend hooking up with my boyfriend in a movie theater. I was sixteen. Sure, this is minor to most people and something I would get over. And I would have if I hadn't been in love with him. Puppy love, yes, but still love. She apologized but I was unable to forgive her. As for him, well a few months later he was nothing but a distant memory. What made it worse was the fact that after I caught them, that night I went home only to find out that my grandma had passed away. A week later, my grandfather passed away as well. Like I said, I'd had a great family. We all loved each other and my grandparents were prominent figures in my life. This killed me. First my boyfriend cheats on me and then I lose both of my grandparents. I was beyond depressed by then. I was only sixteen after all and I couldn't go to my best friend for comfort.

It wasn't until I was raped a month later that the depression became a reality. Something I couldn't get rid of. I was at a party, a college party. People were doing drugs and I was offered weed. Weed isn't really that bad of a drug. Some people don't even consider it a drug. But it was the first time I had tried it. It hit me harder than I thought it would and soon I was unable to move. My friends left me in the bedroom we had been smoking in and I crawled onto the foreign bed, waiting for my paranoia and laziness to fade. It was then that a guy, drunk and high on three lines of coke, burst into the room. He started talking to me but I couldn't understand him. He was rambling too fast for me to figure out what he was saying. But then he crawled on top of me and started to undress me. I resisted but he kept going. Being high made me tired and for some reason my strength was at an all time low. I tried to scream but he covered my mouth with his hand and even then I could barely shout. Five minutes later I laid there on the bed, crying, half naked, and alone. The hip hop music from downstairs was pumping through the walls making me wonder why no one had heard me or even bothered to check on me. My high was gone. My virginity had gone with it.

I never told anyone about what happened to me. I just ignored it, hoping it would go away. It didn't. It haunted me. I stopped hanging out with my friends. None of them really cared like I thought they had. They didn't even care when I stumbled downstairs, my eyes red from crying. They thought I was only drunk and I didn't have the guts to tell them what had happened. The guy just stood in the corner, glaring at me so I just stumbled out of the house and walked home.

Since I couldn't tell anyone, I started talking less. I stopped caring about things. I stopped caring about school. I stopped caring about having friends. I stopped caring about people, my hobbies, my hopes, my future. I stopped caring about all the people that loved me because I started feeling like they never did. My mom thought this fall into depression was merely teen angst. When it didn't wear off she started calling me lazy and asking me why I was always such a bitch. I didn't feel the need to talk to her and she took it as me trying to piss her off.

It wasn't until my dad committed suicide that I really fell off the deep end. He had apparently been on medication all his life for schizophrenia and I had had no idea. I had always been a daddy's girl. Whenever I had a problem, I'd come to him. Whenever I felt unloved, I'd come to him. But he wasn't there. Going to his funeral was the worst thing I've ever had to do. That night I cried for hours. It felt like my whole world was closing in on me. I grabbed the pair of scizzors sitting on my desk and cut myself over and over, wishing the pain would just take over and numb me from having to face the world. Two bloody arms later, I looked in the mirror and realized I hated my hair. It was so blond and bright and happy. I wasn't happy. I was the most unhappy I had ever been. It was time for a change.

Five minutes later, my hair was cut ridiculously short and sticking out in all directions. Parts of it were longer than others and it was completely uneven. But I didn't care. I felt better already. The next day I walked to the nearest drugstore and bought what I figured would cheer me up. I came home and an hour later, my hair was completely black. I looked nothing like myself and I loved it. When my mom saw my hair, she threw a fit. We argued for an hour straight and she slapped me for the first time. After that I never spoke to her unless necessary

I had already started listening to rock music but after that my taste went to death metal. I never turned on the radio. Hearing people's happy voices and the disgusting top 40 music they played just made me want to puke.. I started wearing all black and smearing as much black eyeliner on as possible. My old friends didn't even recognize me. When they called my name in class the first day back after the "vacation" I took to recover from my dad's death, they couldn't believe their eyes. None of them tried to talk to me though which re-confirmed my realization that they had never really been my friends.

A year later I still dress in all black. My hair has grown out a bit but it's still black and shaggy. I'm a senior in high school and all I have to show for it are a series of cuts up and down my arms hidden by long sleeves, a serious case of depression, a soundless mouth, and a hate for the world and everyone in it. I don't know where I'm going in life. I don't even know if I want to live anymore. No one loves me. No one wants to help me. No one ever cared and no one ever will.

You should be grateful for your life. You never know when things might change.

I'm just a sad little emo kid. The one you see sitting alone at lunch time, writing in a notebook and ignoring everything and everyone. You may pass by me without noticing. You may scoff and wonder why some people are so dramatic. But you don't know what I've been through. You don't know what made me this way. I'm a sad little emo kid now.

It sucks to be me.

A/N: Yeah so I was pretty much feeling really emo and listening to some really emo music and really feeling the need to write so I did and this is what I came up with! Haha. It's always good to write a short story randomly when you have writer's block or just are tired of writing the same old bullshit. I wanted to write something different and this is what came out when I started typing. Weird, I know. It's so dark and sad! But whatever. I like it. :) Please rate and review my emoness!