Status: Never give up. You are enough.
No One Said It'd Be Easy.
Nineteen.
You look at me and what do you see? Just a girl with below average breast size, brown hair, brown eyes, countless freckles, extremely pale, average sized height, a normal teenager. But that’s just with the naked eye. In reality, the naked eye is actually blind. It sees what it wants to see. If I was in tears and you didn’t want to see it, you wouldn’t have to. To you, I could be smiling and happy. What is reality anyway? Is anything really real? Or is everything just a figment of our subconscious mind made up to hide our true feelings? Feelings; what are they truly? Emotions? Regrets? What is anything anymore?
When I was two years old, my father shut a door on my finger and cut the top of it off. We drove to the ER right away but before, he wrapped a green towel around my finger and told me to keep holding it. I think my dad cried more than I did. He kept apologizing and telling me that it was an accident. I just kept calm and said, “It’s okay Daddy, really.” But was it? I remember sitting in a room. It was all white and I lay on a metal table. I was extremely uncomfortable and I was hysterical. I was screaming every person’s name in my family from Mommy to my great, great grandmother. The people with masks over their mouths stuck a needle in my finger and I do not remember anything after that. All I remember is that I got a pink cast and it went over my pointer finger and my thumb since it was my pointer finger that broke.
I always think there is something wrong with me. For instance, my boobs are too small or my hands too big. Whatever it may be, I’m always paranoid something is going to happen to me. At earlier ages, I would have been terrified, but now, now I hope there is something wrong with me. I’m hoping to get cancer or to get run over by a reindeer. Or just…something. I’ve secretly thought of suicide many times: popping too many Tylenols. That way, it looks like an accident. I couldn’t do anything physical because it would break my family’s heart and they’d be even more disappointed in me than before. With taking one too many pills it looks like an accident. “Oops, I didn’t mean to take 20 instead of 19 Mommy, I promise.” I’ve never worked up the courage to actually attempt to do so though and I don’t think I ever could.
It absolutely drives me crazy when people say “I’m sorry.” I don’t really care what you have to say about what I tell you. I’m just me. I’m not pretending to be anyone I’m not. You’re so sorry. Okay. That’s good…for you. But what does it do to me? Nothing. It doesn’t make any difference in my life if you’re sorry or not. When I say that I am sorry, I say it because I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes, sure, I really am sorry but generally I say it out of habit.
I know people have it worse than me, I do. I know that I could be living on the streets. Truth is, I almost was at one point. Right after my dad left, my mom worked 24/7, but that wasn’t good enough. Our land-lord kicked us out of our house and we had nowhere to go. Keith, who is now my step-dad, took us in and we lived with him. He is my hero. He spent eight years in the Marine Corps and fought in some wars, I’m not sure which ones though. He took us into his home when we needed him most. He didn’t have two extra rooms for my sister and me so he built them in the basement. He simply built a wall to separate the basement into two. I had a really big room. I loved it there.
Some days I think I’m fat and ugly.
As a kid, I never knew my dad. He has had five different girlfriends in five years. Maybe more that I don’t know about. He has moved seven or eight different times in five years. He doesn’t understand that the things he does also have an affect on me as well. He always said that who he was dating didn’t matter to me. But didn’t it? When I am around this person every time I am around him, I think it affects me. I just can’t do anything right with him. Not ever. And that’s how it’s always been. When I was a kid, he would come home at all hours of the night and sleep on the couch. I used to accidentally wake him up by turning on the TV. I constantly got yelled at and one time he even swung, but he didn’t hit me. I guess I just always pissed him off somehow. I have no good childhood memories with my dad in them. I remember going to the movies with my mom and going to the park with my sister, etc, but nothing ever happened with him. I guess he loved his prostitutes more than he loved his family. That’s how it still is.
My biggest fear is losing control of myself again. It’s happened once before but I don’t want to talk about that.
Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
I’ve always felt like I’m not good enough for anything or anyone. I’m not as smart as my sister or as musically talented as my step-brother. I’m not as strong as I seem to be and I often fake a smile to fight the tears away. When I say, “Yeah man, I’m fine” I barely ever mean it anymore. I wish I could go back to the times when all pain could be healed with a hug and a lollipop. I just want to know: will I ever be good enough?
Music is who I am. I listen to songs that tell my emotion for me. Music speaks for me and to me.
I’m afraid of love.
I want to be kissed in the rain.
I lie.
I’m the type of girl who smiles when she doesn’t want to, who worries more about you than me, who will always forgive but never forget. I have been hurt so many times by a lot of people. I remember each time. I can remember the bad times better than I can the good. My memory consists of bad memories from my childhood, from last year, from a month ago, from yesterday.
I don’t believe in God.
I cry to sleep more than I should.
I hate how I don’t exist to you when you’re with her.
Did you know that you were the first person I told about me cutting? And for a while, you were the only person who knew. I’m not sure why I told you first because at the time, we barely knew each other, but I still secretly had a crush on you; I still do, it’s just not much of a secret.
I’ve heard things about what a player you are. I don’t want to believe this because then everything I know about you would be a lie.
I let people hurt me too badly than I should. I do care what people think because then it either denies what I think about myself or it confirms it.
I sincerely hate it when people tell me it’ll be fine. What is “fine” anymore? Is it that feeling that gets you to smile once or twice in a day? Or how about when you are with your friends and you can joke and laugh and just simply have a good time but then when you are alone you are just the complete opposite?
My eyes say it all.
I hold everything back: my true feelings, tears, myself.
I’m not a perfect girl. My hair doesn’t always stay in place and I spill things a lot. I’m pretty clumsy and I often have a broken heart. My friends and I sometimes fight and most days just never go right. I step back and think about what I would change. And there’s a lot.
There is more to me than just this.
When I was two years old, my father shut a door on my finger and cut the top of it off. We drove to the ER right away but before, he wrapped a green towel around my finger and told me to keep holding it. I think my dad cried more than I did. He kept apologizing and telling me that it was an accident. I just kept calm and said, “It’s okay Daddy, really.” But was it? I remember sitting in a room. It was all white and I lay on a metal table. I was extremely uncomfortable and I was hysterical. I was screaming every person’s name in my family from Mommy to my great, great grandmother. The people with masks over their mouths stuck a needle in my finger and I do not remember anything after that. All I remember is that I got a pink cast and it went over my pointer finger and my thumb since it was my pointer finger that broke.
I always think there is something wrong with me. For instance, my boobs are too small or my hands too big. Whatever it may be, I’m always paranoid something is going to happen to me. At earlier ages, I would have been terrified, but now, now I hope there is something wrong with me. I’m hoping to get cancer or to get run over by a reindeer. Or just…something. I’ve secretly thought of suicide many times: popping too many Tylenols. That way, it looks like an accident. I couldn’t do anything physical because it would break my family’s heart and they’d be even more disappointed in me than before. With taking one too many pills it looks like an accident. “Oops, I didn’t mean to take 20 instead of 19 Mommy, I promise.” I’ve never worked up the courage to actually attempt to do so though and I don’t think I ever could.
It absolutely drives me crazy when people say “I’m sorry.” I don’t really care what you have to say about what I tell you. I’m just me. I’m not pretending to be anyone I’m not. You’re so sorry. Okay. That’s good…for you. But what does it do to me? Nothing. It doesn’t make any difference in my life if you’re sorry or not. When I say that I am sorry, I say it because I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes, sure, I really am sorry but generally I say it out of habit.
I know people have it worse than me, I do. I know that I could be living on the streets. Truth is, I almost was at one point. Right after my dad left, my mom worked 24/7, but that wasn’t good enough. Our land-lord kicked us out of our house and we had nowhere to go. Keith, who is now my step-dad, took us in and we lived with him. He is my hero. He spent eight years in the Marine Corps and fought in some wars, I’m not sure which ones though. He took us into his home when we needed him most. He didn’t have two extra rooms for my sister and me so he built them in the basement. He simply built a wall to separate the basement into two. I had a really big room. I loved it there.
Some days I think I’m fat and ugly.
As a kid, I never knew my dad. He has had five different girlfriends in five years. Maybe more that I don’t know about. He has moved seven or eight different times in five years. He doesn’t understand that the things he does also have an affect on me as well. He always said that who he was dating didn’t matter to me. But didn’t it? When I am around this person every time I am around him, I think it affects me. I just can’t do anything right with him. Not ever. And that’s how it’s always been. When I was a kid, he would come home at all hours of the night and sleep on the couch. I used to accidentally wake him up by turning on the TV. I constantly got yelled at and one time he even swung, but he didn’t hit me. I guess I just always pissed him off somehow. I have no good childhood memories with my dad in them. I remember going to the movies with my mom and going to the park with my sister, etc, but nothing ever happened with him. I guess he loved his prostitutes more than he loved his family. That’s how it still is.
My biggest fear is losing control of myself again. It’s happened once before but I don’t want to talk about that.
Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
I’ve always felt like I’m not good enough for anything or anyone. I’m not as smart as my sister or as musically talented as my step-brother. I’m not as strong as I seem to be and I often fake a smile to fight the tears away. When I say, “Yeah man, I’m fine” I barely ever mean it anymore. I wish I could go back to the times when all pain could be healed with a hug and a lollipop. I just want to know: will I ever be good enough?
Music is who I am. I listen to songs that tell my emotion for me. Music speaks for me and to me.
I’m afraid of love.
I want to be kissed in the rain.
I lie.
I’m the type of girl who smiles when she doesn’t want to, who worries more about you than me, who will always forgive but never forget. I have been hurt so many times by a lot of people. I remember each time. I can remember the bad times better than I can the good. My memory consists of bad memories from my childhood, from last year, from a month ago, from yesterday.
I don’t believe in God.
I cry to sleep more than I should.
I hate how I don’t exist to you when you’re with her.
Did you know that you were the first person I told about me cutting? And for a while, you were the only person who knew. I’m not sure why I told you first because at the time, we barely knew each other, but I still secretly had a crush on you; I still do, it’s just not much of a secret.
I’ve heard things about what a player you are. I don’t want to believe this because then everything I know about you would be a lie.
I let people hurt me too badly than I should. I do care what people think because then it either denies what I think about myself or it confirms it.
I sincerely hate it when people tell me it’ll be fine. What is “fine” anymore? Is it that feeling that gets you to smile once or twice in a day? Or how about when you are with your friends and you can joke and laugh and just simply have a good time but then when you are alone you are just the complete opposite?
My eyes say it all.
I hold everything back: my true feelings, tears, myself.
I’m not a perfect girl. My hair doesn’t always stay in place and I spill things a lot. I’m pretty clumsy and I often have a broken heart. My friends and I sometimes fight and most days just never go right. I step back and think about what I would change. And there’s a lot.
There is more to me than just this.