I am stuck here again. I am faced with a writing assignment in which I have to write about something personal that I really don’t want the world to know about. Of course my mind settles on the same two topics as the options are listed on the board. My parents’ divorce still seems to make up a big part of who I am. I don’t want to sell myself as the girl, who grew up without a father and is now set to fail in all relationships…but I sometimes think that is who I am. I am seventeen years old and I am afraid of love. I hate it when I sound cliché…I just don’t like the expectations of relationships. That much physical contact makes me twitch and letting someone that close to me scares me. I remember feeling lonely a lot growing up. I often wished my dad was around. I also envied the other kids. After a fight with their mom they had someone else to turn to. I was on my own. Then I think about the numerous times I lost it. I see myself back in my dimly lit room, before we bought the new lamp. My mom just finished yelling at me because I had a messy room. Dirty clothes carpeted the hardwood floor and papers cluttered the dresser. My “I don’t have the time” excuse failed me miserably for it had been noted that I had enough time to go on chat rooms. My mom didn’t seem to comprehend that I did not have friends in school. Therefore I had no friends to talk to on the phone or get together with on weekends so when I managed to get on the computer the same time as my online friends, I made time. Outside of the internet world, I was isolated and alone. I told my mom, but she didn’t want to acknowledge her baby was the reject of high school society. This was when I broke down. I couldn’t handle the isolation at home and from school. I diagnosed myself as defective, and I would wait until the lights were out to complete my punishment. After my mom was clearly asleep, I grabbed the flashlight, the sheets made a tent as they draped over my head. And I had my old wallet. Hidden away in the change purse, my razor blade was concealed. I’m not proud of my reaction. Somehow, it felt good then. Somehow, I was making up for my defective existence in a way I can’t really explain other than the pain felt good when I wanted to die. My mind flashes over. Changing in the locker room was always a challenge. I feared being reported. I feared rejection. I heard what happened to kids who were discovered. They were labeled “emo.” They were feared. No one would talk to them. The one clique I was in made sure that I understood my place: the outcast. When they had parties and invitations were given out, I was standing there, but I was never invited. When movie nights at the mall were planned, I was there, but never invited. I wasn’t sure, though, if I wanted to be completely alone. Mocking put downs became a regular part of my life. At first, I was angry. I was angry at my dad for abandoning me, just like everyone else had. I hated the world, I hate this school, I hated everyone…and somehow this transitioned into a hate of myself. Then I collapsed. I was sad, depressed over everything. I still can’t believe how desperate I was. I learned quickly that the more outgoing people got more attention from the guys. I never sent anything bad, but I will admit I flirted a lot. I wanted to be liked…I was craving someone’s love…even though it was just from the internet.
I am here again. Given a writing assignment and the only topics I can think about are exactly what I don’t want the world to know. Let me explain myself: I don’t want to be a tortured artist. I don’t want to be Sylvia Plath. But so many things, so many people, just seem to bring me down. I still have about forty faint scars on my left thigh reminding me of the time I lost control. I’m not concerned about relapses anymore. Now I am just trying to create happiness and I wish people would understand the causes and effects of their actions…and maybe also take the effort to actually care.