Status: Updates as they come. No set dates

Confessions of a Teenage Nothing

Where It All Began*Trigger Warning*

I don't know what's prompted me to start writing this all down. Maybe because I don't know how much longer I'll be alive to share it, or maybe it's just so that no matter what happens I can remember. Or, maybe it's because I want to romanticize my own self hatred and pain just like everyone else and this is most poetic way of all, besides a real poem. Of course, I guess the fact that I just want to get this off my chest to someone who won't yell at me or judge me if why. Anyways, it doesn't matter.
I don't really know how to start this off. Do I talk about when I first realized I wanted adventure, or when I first met depression? When I first did something I shouldn't have, or should I just start six months ago. I guess the very beginning would be my first want for adventure... but everyone naturally feels as soon as they exit the womb. So maybe the first time the depression pushed me to far.
I first felt depression when I was around 12 and my uncle killed himself. I had known from the second the police entered the driveway what they had to say. My dad was standing there, staring away and I was already crying. Once they told me officially, I collapsed and screamed out my grief. I screamed and I cried harder than I ever want to again. I was beyond torn apart, but not surprised. He used to sit with me in his room when he had headaches, no one else would come in but me. We'd just sit together and talk about him and his depression and what made him happy and he told me that if it weren't for me and my siblings, he would be dead. It scared me then, but I can't help but think it was for protection, a forewarning. I noticed once he meet his (ex)girlfriend that she became what we were, his anchor. She kept him here and for that I adored her, she was wonderful. They moved in and I became so familiar with them and their house. His girlfriends daughter was like my own little cousin and we were close enough to be sisters I suppose. At least that's how I remember it. They had broken up though, and I tried to text him and get him to come over and hang out because I knew how he was and he had lost his anchor. I blamed myself for a while, I could have pushed harder for him to come over. I could have said I loved him once more. But I didn't, I let him stay home and I didn't keep checking up on him. And a month later, it happened. That;s what fucked me up I think, having the idea, which I still believe, that I could have saved him but I didn't. That's when I started to realize I needed to do something with my life, but it got so much harder.
That was the first year I let my grades slip. I was happy if I got a C on my tests. When you lose the person you thought you never would, grades don't matter. Nothing matters once you realize it could all be obsolete in a matter of minutes.The grade slips continued from there. I didn't care if I got an A or a F, just so long as I finished the test and had time to write or read, do something I liked. I hate wasting time on stuff I don't like, there's no point to it. I also forgot how to complete stuff on time that year and I still haven't remembered. Anything I turn in is at least 3 days late.
I also turned to a nasty habit in then. I remember how it started. I was in my room, trying to find something to release anger I had gotten from my parents. I slammed my feet and hands into the wall, I yelled and I bit my lip but nothing worked. I remembered seeing somewhere stuff about cutting and it's release. I didn't have a blade on hand, I was 12 for fucks sake I didn't even shave my legs yet, but I still knew what cutting was and knew what would make a substantial enough stand-in. I had an old ring I had broken earlier that week and had kept in the hopes of fixing it. I never did. I used the broken part and raked the jagged metal against my skin. It hurt then, not like it did now though, but it did the job. Three or four times of it and my skin was a bright red and all the anger I felt seemed to melt out of me. I only did it once that year, I was too scared I'd get caught if I did it again. As I grew I learned how to hide it. I did it under my panty line, way high on my thigh so only I could see the light little scars the blade left. I loved the way it looked, raw and broken, a perfect physical metaphor for my mental state at the time. I still love it, I'm just less raw and broken and more fucked up and sick and hateful. Funny how times change but habits don't seem to fade, at least not these ones. They're too demented, like a step towards becoming a psychopath. It makes sense to me, but not to anyone else.
That brings me up to this past year. A mix of disgusting letdowns and beautiful successes.
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New story. I swear it won't all be this depressing, this is just like the explanation of how she got to where she is. Let me know what you think, yeah?