i don't really feel like fighting.

some days, living is the bravest thing i can remember.

i am 13 years old. i go to school each morning with a pit inside my stomach. adrenaline fills my veins and i am ready to run. i cry when i am not supposed to run. it seems my feet are doing it despite my intent.

i am 13 years old. i sit inside my school counselor's office and wonder why it is grey. a kid killed himself and they want to talk to the rest of the students. as if they can undo the boy's suicide. when my school counselor asks, i tell him i do not know why the kid killed himself. i didn't know him, he was older, why did he not want to live? my school counselor does not answer. he asks me how i'm feeling and i panic and say i'm feeling fine. i don't like the look he gives me, i think he knows i'm lying.

i am 13 years old. i sit on the yellow chair in my therapist's office for the first time, and tell her about how i count my days in colors. blue is for the days i cry and white is kind of scary because it feels like nothing and black is so loud that it makes me want to hurt myself. she asks me if i always want to hurt myself and i say only sometimes, on black days. on white days too, because it makes me feel something instead of nothing. what about blue days? she asks. no, not blue days. on blue days i feel like everything. it feels like there is no in between.

i am 13 years old. i tell my therapist i think i've had a panic attack, and when she asks me how it feels, i can't come up with anything. i cry because i think i'm faking it. she offers me a tissue and assures me i am not, but i do not believe her.

i am 13 years old. i write down everything i can find about depression on the internet. the sentences are not always accurate. but one says i feel like i was never alive in the first place and i run my fingers along it again and again because it makes me feel seen.

i am 14 years old. my best friend calls my name on a black day and i forget that's what i'm called. i forget she can see me. i forget i exist. i answer and she calls me again and again and i answer and she asks me where i am and i tell her here but it comes out like a whisper. she will not be my best friend much longer if i keep forgetting my name. it is the first time i make myself bleed.

i am 14 years old. i show the cuts to my therapist and she explains how it's not a nice thing to do. she says i do not deserve to hurt. i do not tell her that i am selfish; the reason i did it was so i could know if i bleed. to make sure i exist. i know i do not deserve to hurt.

i am 14 years old. i realize my brain tricks me into thinking things that are not true, but i can't tell when it stops. i can't tell truths from lies. i deserve to hurt. who is telling me otherwise?

i am 14 years old. i believe my brain is stupid but my therapist says it's just different. i think different is stupid. my friends don't understand stupid. my friends have been calling me a freak and i don't know why i keep calling them my friends. but if i stop calling them my friends, i'll be alone. no one wants to be friends with someone who is afraid of them.

i am 14 years old. my therapist asks me if i want to punish myself and what kind of question is that to ask a 14-year-old? but my anxiety doesn't ask. i don't know, i say, sticking my fingernails into my palms. you're bleeding, she says, and i know. i like the way it feels. don't do that, she says, and i say okay, and do it anyways. these days i don't care about anything at all.

i am 14 years old. my therapist asks about the boy's death in my school last year and i say i still don't understand. he had the choice in front of him, he had the opportunity to live, why did he not take it? we're not asked if we want to live or not, right? we're just thrown in here. i learn that most people want to live and i get mad at whoever ruined it for me. i want better. i want better. i want better. i don't deserve better.

i am 14 years old. my mom cries in the therapist's office this time. she asks the question i was thinking, "is she really that bad?" it feels like a punch to the gut. am i really that bad? why she? why i? shouldn't it be it? i spend the entirety of the therapy session repeating to myself i am not my mental illness i am not my mental illness i am not my mental illness. when i go home, i want to write it in blood. maybe i really am that bad.

i am 14 years old. some days i am afraid to leave the house because crossing the road is too dangerous. some days i want to walk in front of moving cars. some days i want to stick my hand in boiling water. some days i don't feel anything at all. i learn so many new terms. dissociation, intrusive thoughts, suicidal tendencies. they are so scary, but i'm beginning to get used to fear. it is slowly turning into everything i know. fear is shaking hands and breaking bones. it is a body that keeps on bleeding, even when you put a bandage on it. fear spills out of the pores and onto the floor and it evaporates and i inhale it again and the process keeps repeating itself. it's never-ending. i'm so tired.

i am 15 years old. i don't think the boy who killed himself in my school ever had a chance.