The Story of My Life

getting worse

There were times when life didn't feel like it was just a constant battle. There were moments when I felt alive, when things were good. I can still remember those rare, fleeting days when my heart felt lighter, when I laughed with friends, when I felt a sense of hope that maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. I remember the days when I would come home, smile at my mother, and feel a sense of peace, even if just for a moment. There were times when everything felt possible – like maybe, just maybe, I could rise above the hurt and move forward. I remember the times before everything shifted, when my family was whole. I remember the joy of simple things, like sitting down for dinner together or spending weekends with my dad, playing games and talking about nothing. Those moments felt like warmth in the middle of a cold world. They were the memories I held on to, the ones that kept me going, even when things started to fall apart. But over time, those moments became fewer and fewer. The laughter grew quieter. The warmth started fading away. Slowly, without warning, the good times began to feel like they were in the past. What was once a part of my everyday life was now a memory that hurt too much to revisit. As the pain of losing my father grew heavier, and as the distance between me and my mother widened, the good times became distant echoes. The bad days started to feel endless. Every time I thought I was okay, something would remind me of the way things used to be, and I would spiral back down. The warmth and light I once felt was replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. Eventually, it felt like the good times had stopped entirely, like they had been replaced by a permanent shadow. What was once a hopeful, joyful heart was now a broken one, weighed down by too many unanswered questions and too much pain. The moments of peace, of happiness, of hope – they seemed to slip away, leaving only darkness. And suddenly, it felt like the only thing I knew was how to live in the bad times, how to survive through the hurt. Everything felt like it was falling apart. The good times, the hope, the light – all of it seemed so far away now, like I was living in a world where only darkness existed. It wasn't just my family or my father that I was losing, it felt like I was losing everything, even the people I thought I could count on. Not even my closest friends were there for me anymore. They started to pull away, leaving me feeling more alone than ever. I couldn't understand why. I had never done anything to hurt them. I had always been there, tried to be supportive, to be kind. So why was it that when I needed them the most, they weren't there? Why was it that when I was drowning in my own pain, I felt more invisible than ever? And the worst part, the part that cut the deepest, was the bullying. The cruel words, the whispers behind my back, the laughter at my expense – it never stopped. It only got worse. Every day felt like I was walking into a war zone, where the people I once trusted were the ones stabbing me in the back. They called me names, belittled me, and made me feel like I didn't belong. The pain they caused was unbearable, but what made it worse was that I couldn't understand it. I had never done anything to deserve it. I had never hurt anyone, never given them a reason to treat me like this. But still, it continued. The mockery, the exclusion, the cruelty. It was like a never-ending storm that I couldn't escape. The weight of the bullying just piled on top of everything else, making everything feel even more impossible. Each day was harder than the last, and the more I tried to push through, the more I felt like I was suffocating.
It felt like the world was against me, and I was fighting a battle I couldn't win. It wasn't just the people around me; it was the relentless tide of negativity and pain that seemed to swallow me whole. There was one day when the pain became so overwhelming that I couldn't take it anymore. I was out with my best friend, pretending everything was okay, smiling and laughing like I always tried to do. But inside, I was dying. I didn't let him see it, didn't let anyone see how badly I was struggling. That night, I went home, and I couldn't hold it in any longer. I took the pills. I thought, for a moment, that maybe it would stop the pain, that maybe it would end everything – all the hurt, the loneliness, the exhaustion. But as soon as I swallowed them, something inside me snapped. It hit me like a wave – what had I just done? What if I didn't wake up? The regret was instant, overwhelming. I collapsed into tears, the weight of what I had just tried to do crashing down on me. I didn't want to die, not really. I didn't want to leave everyone behind, especially not my mother. I just didn't know how to bear the pain anymore. In a panic, I called my mom. I told her what I'd done, and she didn't hesitate. She rushed me to the hospital. When the doctors checked me over, they told me I was lucky – it wasn't an overdose. I didn't take enough to die, but I'd come so close, and I realized how terrifying that was. But even though I was okay physically, the emotional damage was something no one could fix. The doctors decided I needed to go to a psychiatric hospital. They wanted to help me, to give me the support I needed. But I was terrified. I felt trapped, like I was being forced into something I wasn't ready for. I couldn't imagine being in a place where everything would be about my pain, my brokenness. I didn't want to face it. I didn't want to face the truth. So, I refused. I didn't go. I went back home, back to the place where everything felt wrong, where the weight of my emotions and fears sat heavy in my chest. I wasn't ready to accept help. I wasn't ready to be fixed. I was too scared. What terrified me the most was the thought of trying to heal, only to end up hurt again. What if I tried to be happy, tried to be okay, only for it all to fall apart once more? The idea of feeling hope again, just to have it crushed, was too much for me to bear. So I stayed where I was, stuck in the fear that maybe happiness wasn't meant for me. That maybe, it would just hurt too much to even try. My mother helped me when I made the worst decision of my life. She rushed me to the hospital when I was desperate for an escape. But in that moment, when I was the most hurt and scared, I felt something that hurt even more – I didn't feel her love. It was as if she saw me as just a problem that needed to be fixed, not as her daughter who was drowning in pain and fear. I remember her taking me to the hospital, her face serious, worried, but not in the way I needed her to be. She spoke to the doctors, arranged everything, but I didn't feel an embrace, or hear the words that told me she loved me. Everything felt so mechanical, so distant, as though she was more focused on handling the situation than on me as a person. It was like I was there because it was her responsibility to save me, not because she truly wanted me there. The despair I felt inside was just as strong as the fear of what was to come – the realization that maybe the person I was closest to didn't really love me, at least not in that moment when I needed it the most. It wasn't the hug I needed; it was the words that told me I wasn't alone, that she was there to hold me, not just to solve the problem. And even though she helped me, something inside of me broke – the idea that my mother would always be a refuge for me was shattered. Maybe it was her own pain that made her feel distant, maybe it was her way of coping with the situation, but in that moment, it felt like I was being left alone in my darkest hour. And that hurt more than anything else.