So now what?
That's a good question. A whole lot of stuff. Forgive me if my timeline isn't completely accurate, but my mind hasn't exactly been all there lately. So I am forgetful, not very attentive, and boy have I been clumsy, bitter, and angry at the world.
Anyway...so back to the story.
Once I turned 16, I got my license and I got a job. I was also given a vehicle for my 16th birthday. Yes, I know many of you are thinking great, she's spoiled. Yes, I am spoiled in many ways. But I am not one to take things for granted. Or at least I try not to, but nobody is perfect. My vehicle was awesome. It was a little pick-up truck that was identical to my dad's that he drove when we were growing up as kids.
It was great having my own job. It kept me busy. It was part time, I could only work up to 24 hours because I was still attending high-school. It worked out well. I had my own money, allowing me to pay for the car insurance. Beyond that, I didn't do much with my money except for save it. Of course, I bought some things, but in all honesty, there was nothing for me to spend my money on. I didn't go do things with friends. They weren't like that. They always said they didn't have money to go do things or that their parents wouldn't let them go out. So in other words I was pretty much a loner. A loner that had dreams that seemed would never come true. There were so many things I wanted to do, to experience, but what was the fun in doing it by yourself? There really isn't and so I didn't. I didn't go do things. There were no slumber parties, there was no going to the mall, going to the movies, or late night drives getting pizza or a fast food run. There weren't parties to go to. There wasn't anything.
We lived in a small town, you see. If you wanted to go do something or go somewhere, it was miles from home. The town I lived in was actually miles from my school too.
Oh, did I mention my parents got divorced? That happened before all of the tale I have mentioned thus far. Because of it, I lived with my mother. My parents had joint custody of my sister and I, so we lived with my mom. During high-school, we got to see my dad almost every Wednesday and then every other weekend. It worked out okay. I always did my best to make sure that I went over there to visit with him. My sister very rarely went over to his place. I know it bothered him, but there was nothing I could do about it. She was in her late teens, going to high-school, and also had a job. Despite this, my father and I always seemed to have a good time together. I'm his baby girl and I won't try to deny it.
Since my parents were the ones that chose to get a divorce and then also moved us to different houses, my sister and I were allowed to stay at that current high-school instead of transferring. My mother gave us gas money each week, which I was grateful for. I really didn't want to switch to a different school.
Looking back now, maybe I should have. Maybe I would have been able to learn more and gain more friends, but that doesn't really matter because it seems like it was many moons ago. However, it would have been a major change and something new.
What's more interesting about doing new things is my reaction to them. Honestly, I have begun to think I have anxiety problems without even realizing it. New things scare and excite me in the same breath. Scare me because you never know what's truly going to happen or come of it, and excites me because it is something new. It's something I haven't experienced or done before. Hell yes, it would be out of my comfort zone, but doing it would delight my need for adventure, for my inner wild child that's never seen the day. Deep inside I want to let loose, be wild, and enjoy life. But I feel like my wings have been clipped and that I'm suffocating on the very oxygen that I'm breathing.
Even though I felt this way, I kept moving forward with life as much as I detested it. There were many days that I wouldn't eat in hopes that I would wither away to nothing. Obviously I never accomplished that, because let's be honest here - I love my food.
Before talking with the mysterious Wattpader, my life seemed to be coming even more and more dark. I didn't want to go to school, I didn't want to talk to friends, didn't want to eat, didn't want my family to bother me, nothing. I wanted to disappear into the shadows of death.
To release some of the pain and depression I also turned to having an occasional cigarette and slitting my own wrists. I did it with a needle. Taking it and dragging it across my skin brought temporary relief to my feelings. It was never enough to leave scars. I was smart enough to make sure that they weren't
The only thing that kept me on the brink of not losing it was expressing myself through writing. It allowed me to get my emotions out through words and kept me focused on the story. I didn't have to worry about my problems or my life, only the problems of the fictional characters I was writing about. What were their names, what would they look like, what would their personalities be, what was the plot of the story - I could focus on that instead of my own surroundings.
It seemed better that way. I was depressed, and didn't want to live the life that I was, but I didn't know how to change it. Didn't know what steps to take.
So, at the age of 15 all I felt like doing was to committing suicide.
