I don’t know where else to tell my story. No one’s ever listened.

I was born on December 16th 1998 into a loving supportive family, I don’t know how I ended up like this.

My mother was a tattoo artist, and my father a truck driver. They were too busy when I was a child to take care of me, so I had to go to daycare. The first time I was called a bad name was in that daycare. Ever since that day I’ve never forgotten everything I’ve ever been called. And that was also when the nightmares started. I don’t know if they were interconnected, or whether I just made it all up to get over it, or what happened. All I know is that they effect me now worse then they did then. But instead, now, I handle it differently.

When I was seven, we had to move out of my hometown. I used to live in a big city. One of the biggest one’s in my province. But now, I live in this tiny unknown to the rest of the universe town. It was torture. As if being the new girl was hard enough, I was the FAT new girl. Until about fourth grade, I only had 3 friends. And then it grew to 2. And then it was only 1. In fifth grade that 1 friend moved away., But someone new showed up. She brought back the other 2 too. Her name was Stephanie. And to put it right to the point, she ruined my life. She changed me.

Now, let me state some facts about Steph. She was obsessed with me, and I was about her. She liked to label herself, always going on about trying this new “Emo” look. She was always trying to lose weight.  And, She never took the blame.

She was the same size as me, same weight and everything, but she always had to tell me that I was fatter than her. And I let her, because I didn’t want to lose her. But somewhere in the middle something happened. Maybe in was the words of others, or the words of hers, or me finally realizing how big I was, but I cut myself for the first time. When I showed Steph, she laughed, and said “You’re just figuring about this now? Wow, those aren’t even deep. Pathetic.” That night, I cut more. Then a month after that night (I hadn’t cut after that for some reason.), My sister saw them. She looked through my notebooks and found some pretty depressing poetry. She freaked out at me. She told me that she used to, she told me to stop. I did, for a while. But then in seventh grade some things happened (let’s just say I wasn’t enough, and Steph left.) I started again. Instead this time, I intended not to get caught. So I started cutting on my stomach.

By eighth grade I realized it wasn’t just enough to cut my stomach, I felt the over whelming urge to cut my arms. So I did. And I regret it more than anything.

All through eighth grade I cut my arms, and I developed an eating disorder. It wasn’t specified. It was more of a restricting/purging scenario. I lost 25 pounds. The summer after eighth grade, my mother found out about my self-harm. It was a two hour conversation. She never even gave me the chance to tell her why I did it.

It’s now 3/4 of the way through ninth grade. I was just diagnosed with BPD, Severe Depression, Social Anxiety, and Insomnia. I think I’ve finally found a group for myself, but yet, I still like I’m not accepted. I don’t know. I just feel like I don’t have a reason to be here. Everyday I think about killing myself. How to do it, Who would care, If my picture would be in the paper, What my funereal would look like. I crave death. I crave the feeling of no more pain. What’s wrong with me? I thought I was getting better.