I feel all alone

I’m 12. Freaking 12. And I have a suicide note written.

When I was 11, I fell into a depression. I wasn’t quite sure why, I guess my parents pissed me off too much. I couldn’t go a day without crying. Sure, call me a crybaby.

It was too much stress. I had projects due, tests upcoming, essays my dad forced me to write. I hyperventilated at least five times.

One day, I was printing out another essay when my dad was yelling at me in the other room. I looked down and saw the printer cord…and then suicide popped into my mind. Why not?

I wrapped the cord around my neck and began to strangle myself. I was too weak and holding it for five minutes made my arms sore and I was still breathing. That was when I started thinking about suicide.

It was so easy. One minute of pain, then minus a lifetime. I just wanted to die. That bad. I would climb on the roof and debate whether or not to jump.

I was bipolar. At school, I put up a cheery front and was happy. I truly was. Then, after school, I was depressed. I hated my family. Every time my dad tried to touch me, I cringed. I refused to even pat his back. I still do.

I guess my thoughts wounded me. I began writing the events in my life down, and I sent it to two of my friends. They freaked out and was horribly worried. Somehow, they talked me out of it.

Then, one day, my dad forced me to clean out my binder. He found the piece of paper which I had written methods of suicide on it, then ones I tried. My dad showed my mom, and then made me trash it.

What pissed me off the most was that they didn’t care. They didn’t do anything. I felt hurt. I felt alone.

My brother was almost perfect. I am sitting here, writing this, when tomorrow a literature project is due. I show my dad my completed version, and he hates it. My brother prances in, shows him his version, which is almost identical to mine except for the fact that he colored it with crayons, and he passes. What the hell?

My dad always forced me to do things. Make him tea, clean up, get stuff. My brother just sat around on his royal tush and didn’t do a thing. I felt that he was favored.

Once, we went to Shanghai for a fancy dinner, and everyone was invited. My dad got mad at me for sitting down and I began crying. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in, and tried to strangle myself with the strap of my handbag. After ten minutes, I came out. My dad forced me to talk to him, and I hyperventilated twice.

I was depressed. I was suicidal. I wanted to die.

My dad was a freaking iron pole, something that won’t bend. He will never understand me.

Isn’t it sad to say that I, a 12 year old girl, wanted to take a gun and shoot her dad? I shoot archery. How many times have I fought the urge to shoot him with my arrow? Ten? Twenty? Thirty?

My life may seem perfect. I had perfect grades. I was an excellent artist and archer.

I’m not perfect.

My life is a crappy hell, and no one understands. I feel all alone.

I’ve always wished for someone to understand me. To help me overcome. To show me that there are other ways to deal with pain than jumping off a roof.

Also, maybe, I wished my dad would be a little more flexible. He’s like a walking devil, always assigning essays right when I had three tests and four projects due. Always being lazy, mean, and rude.

But if I couldn’t get rid of him, I’ll get rid of myself.

I have mood swings and anger issues. I so desperately want to punch a wall, his face, anything. Anything to release the pain.

I thought about running away, but not at this time of the month. It’s winter. I’ll freeze.

My friend and I made a plan to run away. Maybe. When the sun shines, and when hope doesn’t, I might, I might, just grow wings and fly.

Because I’m all alone.