My mother and father divorced when I was a toddler, and I, like most, swore to hate their opposing parent until the ends of time. I still do hate my father.
By the time I reached the second grade I was an emotional wreck who was attached at the hip to her mother. I would cry after being dropped off at school, I would be sent to the guidance counselors who would sit me down with a soft, lion puppet until I could calm down, then I was sent away.
I was just another kid to them, which makes sense now, but not then.
I moved to another town when I hit the third grade, even little old me had a boyfriend who I claimed to be in love with. Everything was alright, but I still could not fathom guidance counselors.
Things went smoothly until the sixth grade. My first year of being a big girl in middle school. That was the year I first grabbed a piece of dirty glass and held it to my skin.
The constant thought of my father leaving plagued me. It sickened me. How could he leave me for a new wife and a daughter? How could he leave us like this? I still don't know.
Seventh grade was worse. I was constantly slicing my thighs, only this time I had moved up to scissors. I felt disgusting. An abomination. When I would cut, it felt like some alien took control of my body and forced me to hurt myself. I thought I didn't want to, but deep inside, I know I did. I deserved it.
Eight grade was the year I decided to tell someone. My best friend. She cared for me. She loved me like a friend should. I also told my teacher which was a major mistake, but I left out the self-harm side of my Tale.
She brushed it off and sent me to the restroom. It was forgotten until the dreaded next day when my last teacher of the day pulled me out of class and told me something was wrong.
I had never acted that way before. I had never been upset. I had never scared her so much. I had never had her worry about a student.
She sent me to the guidance counselor's office where I was forced to talk to a woman who compared me to a woman who watches a hallmark commercial. That it was hormones, because of my period. Being a teenager and not starting her period was atrocious.
She forced me to speak to my mother. I did, through a text message because I was afraid to face her. I still am to this day.
I was spiraling. I was hopeless. My mother betrayed me. Told me it was true. Hormones. Craziness. I was just confused.
She forgot about it to this day, she doesn't remember her precious, honor roll child being sick.
I'm in the ninth grade. I cut at least once a month. It hurts to do this to myself, but it's the point. I hate doing it. I can't help it. I want help, but I've been failed so many times and I'm not ready to tell her. I can't ruin her again.
I found out a month ago that my father has another child. It set me off. I haven't been the same since.
I plan to get help once I can afford real help where I won't have to inform my mother of everything I do. In three years I can get the help I need. I just have to make it that far.
(if anyone has words of advice or support for this individual, feel free to leave it in the comments!)
