Occasionally I sit alone in my room, pondering past secrets that are forever embedded into my memory. I see what my life has become and wonder what lies ahead: Emptiness and loss. I look over to my made bed, to see my cat curled into a ball with her fur ruffled as she sleeps, peacefully. I smile as I realize that maybe my life has more to offer, more joy than I see. I sit next to her, petting her soft fur. I smile down at her as she takes in slow breaths. He soft grey-white fur rising with every breath.

Soon my joy is over as my Grandmother steps into my peaceful lair. She speaks with an irritated tone, enough to convey anger, but just under the tone of fury. She tells me to get my work done, that I need to do better in school. She states the obvious, “Your grades are low.” As I attempt to tell her that I have finished my work, she only rises to more irritation and anger. As the conversation reaches a full screaming match, I lower my voice as she raises hers.

Later, as the conversation defuses, I sit alone in my room, back to the dark clouds I was once in before. I shut my door and pull out my sketchbook and a pen. As carefully placed lines bleed from my mind to my hand. The embodiment of my imagination seeps out in the form of black ink. Random lines appear as I steadily move my pen across the once blank canvas. My thought process is cloudy, but it turns into something more than just lines. A shape starts to appear, almost abstract, but recognizable. A cardinal. I have no red pen, so I continue with my black ink and lightly color the areas that are red, and darkly color the areas that are black.

One hour passes, then another. Soon I hear footsteps, and I know who it is, my grandmother. She opens my door, and looks at me with eyes that show fury. She doesn’t say anything, but merely stares at me. She looks around my room, trying to find anything for me to do. As she turns and walks out, she says one final thing, “Remember that you’re failing.” I do not understand what she is talking about, I have no failing classes. I think nothing of it and continue darkening and overlaying the Cardinal.

I never actually thought about happiness, according to my mind. It’ll never be happy, it’ll never be fair, I’ll never be happy. I guess I believed myself because, as the night continued on, my mind did also. Breaking every spirit, shattering every fragile piece of hope I had left. As I lay there, mentally, emotionally, and physically tired, I wonder why I am this way. I am not generally tired because of the one fight, no, but because of school, because of all the fights between anyone of my family members, because of all those that I had once loved leaving me behind and stabbing me in the back. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I take out my journal, my sketchbook, pens, pencils, that’s why I rip open old scars. I do all those things to relieve stress, not because I want to. i write poetry made up of re opened wounds, old memories. I write stories that consist of heartbreak and distrust to decrease feelings of guilt and sorrow. My drawings aren’t just drawings, they’re every feeling I have ever felt, every memory placed carefully on a white piece of paper. No one else knows anything about me, only my sketchbook and journal truly know me. They know my emotions and memories, all the re-opened wounds. I don’t want it any other way.

Although it may seem harsh, I can’t see myself in this world. I feel abandoned, lost, not really here. It seems like others care, but do they really? Do my Grandparents really care? I’m not sure, and maybe I will never know or understand why I’m here, but maybe I really, truly don’t belong. I wish I could numb the pain like I used to, with music, words, or art, but it seems the only way I can do that is with sleep, isolation, and crying, but then again, none of those actually numb the pain, those are just coping methods.

It seems my entire life is an existential crisis. I always question why we are here, or why I’m here. I hate when people tell me that i’m going to be okay, I get that daily, it is a neutral phrase that means nothing to me. And I can only think of how tired I am of being here.