Never See Me Cry

Once upon a time I was happy. Not just smiling but actually happy, honest to God happy. Everything was alright, but "once upon a time"has to end. I guess you can say it started when my dad died. I don't know. I say it was before that. I know he wasn't perfect but at least with him I wasn't in the dark. He told me alot that my mother wouldn't admit to nor say. I won't go into detain yet. I guess I could have changed it. She asked me when all of this started, who I would rather live with. Her or my dad. I didn't want to be a bitch so I lied and said both. I should have told her the truth. Give my dad full custody of me. I didn't want to live with her, but its to late to change it, so I have to live with my decision, which is what I'm doing, I guess. It's not that I don't love my mom--you could say I do, but that isn't my point. My point is I've got to get this out. And I'll warn you now, you're not going to like it, but I'm done faking a smile. I'm done playing nice. Sixteen years old and I'm finally telling my story.

When my mom and dad split up it didn't seem to affect me. I had to be strong for my brother, so I hid the pain. You never saw me cry and I liked it that way. It was better for all of us if I just kept quiet. Don't let anyone in. Keep to myself and be alone. Things were alright. I begged dad to let me live with him full time and he finally agreed but a week later he was gone. I cursed God. I hated him. To this day, I still blame him even if I tell you I don't. I've denounced his name. And you can tell me it's wrong but I'm still mad at him. He took the one person I could always count on. Since then I push people away. I figure if I don't get close it won't hurt when they leave, which I know they will.

I started dating my best friend. She was everything to me, even through all the shit we got and the judgement I didn't care because at least I was happy. Since dad had died, I was happy. And then, my mom found out, which proved my words: She's a hypocryte. She had told me if I ever choose to be that way she'd support me, but after she knew it was "Not until you're eighteen." But I really honestly didn't care. I stayed with my best friend for months after. I hated my mom. I barely talked to her. And never once during this did I say "I love you" and you know? I don't regret it. I don't wish It would have gone differently, I don't. Eventually my best friend, call her Jamie, and I broke up. It all got to be to much, and yes I openly blamed my mom. I sent her one message, "You broke it. Now fix it." But I knew she wouldn't.

I went out looking for fights. I needed pain. Even if I lost, I needed the pain. And I knew I could get it. It wasn't like it was an impossible action. So with music pounding in my ears, I hit the pavement, ran until I couldn't anymore and found the toughest looking gangs. I started fighting with a few of the members. The fights I won earned me respect. The fights I lost only made me stronger, smarter. I knew it was reckless but at the time, it was the only thing that kept me sane so I kept doing it. My mom never knew. Hell00until now no one did. It wasn't something I wanted getting around. I went to school and faked a smile. Make-up covered the bruises. And I hid my eyes with my hair so that no one could see them. No one would see the pain I hid. I made sure of that. Yes, I was tired. I hadn't slept in a while. When I did sleep it was constant nightmares. Not like monsters in the closet but shadows. Black, blue, purple, and red smokey objects swarming me, suffocating me. I'd wake up gasping for air, wondering why there was blood on my bed. I lifeted my shirt and saw the scars on my ribs. It wasn't that bad. They were completely red and blood-stained. I was careful as I got dressed for school, but as I got in my mom's car I was silent. It hurt to talk. It hurt to move. But I couldn't tell anyone---I wouldn't. I told you, they never see me cry.

I was strong. I am strong. I guess my friends noticed the lie. I tried, "I'm just tired." and countless other excuses and they seemed to accept it. Life went on. The fights decreased as I lost interest. I tried pot, but it didn't do anything for me. I tried meth once, but never found it fun--never got addicted. Cigarettes calmed me down a little bit, but I was still on my own. I started cutting. And it worked. My ribs, my wrists, and my arms had scratches, scars because I "fell through glass" And everyone was dumb enough to buy it. I haven't cut since before the move. I have one deep cut that reminds e of what pain I can cause. Will I go back? I don't really know. I like the pain, I like feeling in control, but I don't like people's reactions. I rarely did anyway. As much as I like the pain, I only did when everything got to be to hard. When I can't deal anymore I turn to a razor blade. I never cried when the blade was in my hand, I had to much control. I wasn't scared. I honestly didn't care if my mom walked in. I'd get sent to Intermountain, rehab-center, convince them I wasn't going to kill myself--whcih I never considered. It wouldn't be hard to make them let me go. I won't take any pills--I feel as if they're useless, but that's just my opinion.

I have alot of those and though I'm quiet, I've got no problem speaking my mind. It's one of the things people don't see. And another thing--I love to surprise people with what I can do. For me--it feels great to prove them wrong. I'm better than what I seem. But until I'm ready to show no one will find out.