Battle Scars

 Prologue

350 million people suffer from depression. Nearly two thirds of people with this disorder go through life without treatment. Untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide in teenagers. Nearly four percent of the population self harms. Statistics, that's all that you ever see when it comes to this type of thing. Facts, studies, surveys, just the same thing over and over again. But it's not the same when you're living it, is it? You feel completely alone; those statistics mean nothing to you. It's you and only you. You don't seem like part of the statistical facts. You're story is different from everyone else', no one knows what is really going on in your life, so how dare they just throw you into a group and label you?

 

Cutter, emo, freak, attention whore; that's my group. The people with the scars on their wrist that make them socially unacceptable. It's not just that though. People don't seem to realize the pain you have to be in to take that blade, or that lighter, or your own fist and use it against yourself. It's trading out emotional pain for physical pain; stress for a little mark on your body. Everything seems so right the moment you get that relief.

 

Which is why I'm writing this, to show people that you're not just part of a statistic. So, this is my story.

 

Being a teenager is tough; high school sucks, people are rude, and not to mention the hormone levels are a bit unstable. My life though, in all reality is pretty good. I mean, sure my parents fight sometimes, but they love me. I have friends; kind of. School comes easy to me, it's just really boring. I seem like just your average girl, not a horrible background but not great either.

 

For some odd reason, my mind doesn't work like that though. It's like, I know that I have a good life and I am extremely grateful for everything that I have, so why am I so sad? I think it might have to do with how I see the world. I can see through people. When someone is faking a smile or trying to hide something I can always figure out whats wrong. Like how this one girl in my class is bulimic or how this guy is getting beat by his dad every day.

 

I just look at them and I know; it's almost instant. I look into peoples eyes and I see so much pain, just pure agony that they can't help. I hate it, and I think because of that reason I hate myself. I always notice the bad things; never the good. It's like my brain is incapable of being able to see the beauty in life.

 

Everyone has their secrets and I have quite a few. It's probably those secrets that made me how I was, but I got over them. I forgot them so that I could move on. I locked them up in the back of my mind and threw away the key.

“Scarlet, pay attention,” my history teacher snapped as he hit my desk with a ruler.

My head snapped up from the notebook that I was writing in as my eyes grew wide, “Sorry sir.”

He glared at me, “So tell me Scarlet, you seemed pretty into taking notes. Who was the biggest gang leader in the 1920's?”

“Al Capone?” I guessed, remembering his name breaking through my mindless writing that I had previously been doing.