the days i was dying

one : the day i died

☆。* I was only 11, maybe 12 years old, but I guess that's not enough for mercy. 。☆。

 trigger warning // self harm, divorce, negative thoughts (I'm being serious. I do not want to cause your thought process to get out of hand. safe reading loves<3)

I despised everything about my life. I wasn't who I wanted to be. where I wanted to be, and I somehow felt like it would be the end of the world. The feeling of the world ending (my world, at least) hadn't even begun.

I was who some people would have seen as popular in 6th grade. I had long, brown hair, basic clothes, mascara and highlighter, and above all, friends. That's the punchline. I look back and have a hard time believing that any of them liked me. Present day, -I try my hardest not to believe this- I think that I live in the same illusion that I used to. That my current friends don't want to be around me, and that I wouldn't realize until later.

My parents divorced the year before. The year before that, my house had caught fire and at least mildly damaged everything inside of it. I had to wait about 2-3 months before the restoration company returned what they could. There were many things lost that day, that year. I believe that the complications in my parents' marriage were from the stress and trauma of that whole ordeal. It may also have something to do with my mom's boss, which is now her fiancé four, almost five years later. I am fifteen now, and it's difficult to see through my dad's drinking problem. It coincidentally started around four, almost five years ago. My dad has a lot on his mind, and I knew that. When I started to realize the drinking issue, I also realized maybe there was more on his mind than I thought.

Back around the sixth grade time period, I was realizing all of these things, thinking somehow the fees, insurance policies, doctors, all regarding me, had done this. If I didn't come out this way, if I didn't have issues with my anger and sadness, if I didn't have trouble focusing, if I didn't need so much special attention, maybe my parents would've had less to handle, and would've worked it out. I felt as if it was all my fault.

So I carved my skin out of my arms with my mom's tweezers. I picked and pulled at it until it was red and bleeding small pearls of blood. I hated everything about my life, I hated my existence. I wasn't worth the time, energy and money. That's when it started. 

Self harm became an addiction. Depression lit a small flame inside my brain, and it has since turned into a wildfire. There aren't any firefighters for my head. So it just burns and destroys everything in its path.