I often delved into the depths of my own mind, constantly consumed by thoughts, drowning in self-doubt and despair.
Being fifteen was overwhelming, especially when I felt like I had no one to turn to for help.
My hand shook as I stared at my phone, seeing my friends' posts—each one a snapshot of their seemingly perfect lives. I couldn't help but compare myself, feeling like I would never measure up.
But what would I know? I was just a useless kid who wouldn't amount to anything.
With a heavy sigh, I tore my eyes away from the hypnotic glow of my phone screen. The chaotic mess of my room came into sharp focus.
Messy would be an understatement; dry blood, scattered tissues, empty pill bottles, food wrappers, and general filth cluttered my space more than clothes. My room, the smallest in the house, felt like a prison where my thoughts and I lived in squalor. The walls were a dull grey. Thick, poorly hung curtains blocked out most of the natural light. The smell—a mix of stale sweat, old food, and musty air—clung to everything. At least I had a decent-looking chair to sit in.
It's safe to say I wasn't living in the best condition.
My mother didn't care about me; she only cared for herself and my sisters. My dad was also treated similarly by my mother and sisters before ultimately taking his own life. It made me wonder how they even got together and had children in the first place.
My gaze shifted back to my phone, hoping for the usual posts. Instead, a few notifications appeared, indicating that I had been blocked by all of my friends.
The reality of being blocked by them hit me like a punch to the gut.
But what had I expected? They had never truly treated me as a friend, yet I still clung to the false hope that one day they would understand the pain they caused.
This moment made me realise that I was truly alone.
I enjoyed drawing. Sketching the world around me provided an escape. It was a way for me to express my emotions and thoughts without fear of judgement. The strokes of my pencil on paper became my silent companions in a world where I felt abandoned.
I would sometimes sketch my life, from when I was three years old to the present day, capturing the moments that shaped me into who I am. Every event, no matter how traumatic or joyful, found its way onto the pages of my sketchbook, allowing me to process and reflect on my experiences in a unique and therapeutic way.
Since my mother had been an abusive alcoholic from basically my earliest memories, and my older sisters had decided to follow in her footsteps, there weren't many happy drawings I could create, if any at all.
Then my years at school were filled with bullying and isolation, further contributing to the darkness in my sketches. I'd found a few "friends." They were the only friends I needed, I thought. They stayed with me from middle school through high school, and despite the fact that they always picked on me or made fun of my art, I clung to them because they were all I had.
They were a toxic influence on me, but I was too scared to be alone. And now that they had blocked me on all social media, I felt completely abandoned and lost. There was nothing left to hold onto, no one to turn to for support or companionship.
While I slumped against my unwashed mattress—cocooned by the filth of my room—and mused about my bleak existence, I tried to ignore the oppressive atmosphere around me. But the sudden sound of my door slamming open made me jump internally.
While I slumped against my unwashed mattress—cocooned by the filth of my room—and mused about my bleak existence, I tried to ignore the oppressive atmosphere around me. But the sudden sound of my door opening made me jump internally.
