Nov 2013
18* years
6,570 days
157,680 hours
9,460,800 minutes
567,648,000 seconds
is my life.
18 years I have lived,
brought up by a family
where emotions and love
was viewed as sin.
18 years I have begged
for fatherly affection
and for a mother's patience.
18 years I have lived in shadow
of the first child. of the one
that could do none but all wrong.
my life was not like most.
always pressured to be perfect
but that's been heard before.
but to stand there beside my father
already an insecure 15 year old
and have him bash my accomplishments
in front of my face. talking down
to me. to do more.
you can always do better.
7 years
you get the point
i have not known happiness.
i have lived with this heavy
presence all around me.
he became his own person.
Depression hung around my neck
like an anchor, constantly pulling
me to the ground and each time
i think this would be the final
time. the time that i could not
get up. wrapping around my
chest, squeezing the life
out of me. the breath.
4 years
i hated myself so much
overwhelmed by hate
worry and sadness
that i would go into my
room, take out my pocket knife
and carve away the pain.
let the blood flow.
scars up and down my
wrists and legs.
i would cry out in pain.
they knew.
they all knew what i was doing.
they were in the next room in fact.
but in my house, if you didn't
acknowledge a problem, it
didn't exist.
but my sickness did exist.
and i was left alone with it
for it to destroy me.
and so it did.
2 years
ago, i met this boy
who seemed quite nice at first
he was my first real boyfriend
and i trusted him.
but he had a monster behind that mask
that appeared every time i
would want to see my friends
or even spoke back to him.
he hit me. simple as that.
he hit me and choked me
and knocked me down to the ground
he told me i should **** myself
and i told him i already considered it.
i told myself that he was just playful
to stop being such a ***** about it.
i was afraid to leave him because
no one else would love me.
i would look in the mirror,
bruises around my neck
and his entire handprint
around my arm. i lied to my
mom when she asked, and she
believed me to avoid conflict.
it wasn't until in september
that we got into an argument in
the school's parking lot. it
was around 4 o'clock, we stayed
for film club so the lot was vacant.
he was angry, more so than usual.
he grabbed my arms and shook me violently.
slapped my face and threw me to the concrete
and left me there.
he drove off while i was unable to move
blinded by the pain in my head
from bashing it on the pavement
and crying out for anybody.
it seemed like forever until
my friends came out from the building
and found me.
1 year
i attempted suicide. (let's forget this make believe meter) i can't specify why i wanted to die because it was everything. ever since i can remember, i've been hoping for death to come. for it to be accidental because i didn't have the ***** to **** myself off. and it didn't happen as some great event, as some dramatic turning point. it was a realization of complete unhappiness with my life. of a definite desire for death. that i had nobody. i never knew love. never had affection. that being alive was just painful. and so, by my old means, i took the razor blade from under *the collected works of edgar allan poe and i sat on the floor. without a second thought, i jabbed it into my wrist, pulling the blade up. it wasn't long until my entire hand was coated by a crimson glove. my entire body throbbed, rocking me softly to sleep.apparently my parents found me in time. lucky me.
9 months
i have lived a somewhat different life. i decided not to rely on the love of others, but for me to love myself. and believe me, i'm still working on it. my wounds have turned to scars. nasty, ugly ones. but i'm in love with them. despite the antidepressants and the counseling, i still have bad days. i still miss the relief of cutting. i miss it more than anything. but those days no longer consume me.
you call me a mistake? i might be, but not in relation to you. others may read this, but it's you in which this matters. you wasted those days because you refused to act. i will take responsibility when needed, but this wasn't on me.
**you couldn't have possibly loved me, because you never knew me.
6,570 days
157,680 hours
9,460,800 minutes
567,648,000 seconds
is my life.
18 years I have lived,
brought up by a family
where emotions and love
was viewed as sin.
18 years I have begged
for fatherly affection
and for a mother's patience.
18 years I have lived in shadow
of the first child. of the one
that could do none but all wrong.
my life was not like most.
always pressured to be perfect
but that's been heard before.
but to stand there beside my father
already an insecure 15 year old
and have him bash my accomplishments
in front of my face. talking down
to me. to do more.
you can always do better.
7 years
you get the point
i have not known happiness.
i have lived with this heavy
presence all around me.
he became his own person.
Depression hung around my neck
like an anchor, constantly pulling
me to the ground and each time
i think this would be the final
time. the time that i could not
get up. wrapping around my
chest, squeezing the life
out of me. the breath.
4 years
i hated myself so much
overwhelmed by hate
worry and sadness
that i would go into my
room, take out my pocket knife
and carve away the pain.
let the blood flow.
scars up and down my
wrists and legs.
i would cry out in pain.
they knew.
they all knew what i was doing.
they were in the next room in fact.
but in my house, if you didn't
acknowledge a problem, it
didn't exist.
but my sickness did exist.
and i was left alone with it
for it to destroy me.
and so it did.
2 years
ago, i met this boy
who seemed quite nice at first
he was my first real boyfriend
and i trusted him.
but he had a monster behind that mask
that appeared every time i
would want to see my friends
or even spoke back to him.
he hit me. simple as that.
he hit me and choked me
and knocked me down to the ground
he told me i should **** myself
and i told him i already considered it.
i told myself that he was just playful
to stop being such a ***** about it.
i was afraid to leave him because
no one else would love me.
i would look in the mirror,
bruises around my neck
and his entire handprint
around my arm. i lied to my
mom when she asked, and she
believed me to avoid conflict.
it wasn't until in september
that we got into an argument in
the school's parking lot. it
was around 4 o'clock, we stayed
for film club so the lot was vacant.
he was angry, more so than usual.
he grabbed my arms and shook me violently.
slapped my face and threw me to the concrete
and left me there.
he drove off while i was unable to move
blinded by the pain in my head
from bashing it on the pavement
and crying out for anybody.
it seemed like forever until
my friends came out from the building
and found me.
1 year
i attempted suicide. (let's forget this make believe meter) i can't specify why i wanted to die because it was everything. ever since i can remember, i've been hoping for death to come. for it to be accidental because i didn't have the ***** to **** myself off. and it didn't happen as some great event, as some dramatic turning point. it was a realization of complete unhappiness with my life. of a definite desire for death. that i had nobody. i never knew love. never had affection. that being alive was just painful. and so, by my old means, i took the razor blade from under *the collected works of edgar allan poe and i sat on the floor. without a second thought, i jabbed it into my wrist, pulling the blade up. it wasn't long until my entire hand was coated by a crimson glove. my entire body throbbed, rocking me softly to sleep.apparently my parents found me in time. lucky me.
9 months
i have lived a somewhat different life. i decided not to rely on the love of others, but for me to love myself. and believe me, i'm still working on it. my wounds have turned to scars. nasty, ugly ones. but i'm in love with them. despite the antidepressants and the counseling, i still have bad days. i still miss the relief of cutting. i miss it more than anything. but those days no longer consume me.
you call me a mistake? i might be, but not in relation to you. others may read this, but it's you in which this matters. you wasted those days because you refused to act. i will take responsibility when needed, but this wasn't on me.
**you couldn't have possibly loved me, because you never knew me.
