My 6th grade year I moved to a new school. I immediately got sucked into the popular group. These girls were the pretty ones. I wondered why they let me hang out with them. I soon found out. They would shove me, hit me, yell at me. I was their slave. Everyone knew but no one would do anything about it. I was scared to go to school because I knew she would hurt me. I started getting really depressed, I had no friends. Finally a couple people started talking to me. We would pick up my friend Jacob on the way to school. One day when we went to his house he didn't come out right away. I went to the door and wished I hadn't. His dad had committed suicide the night before. I was in shock. There was a lot of crying and silence. Soon after that I started self-harming. My knives and blades became my only escape, the only way I could cope. I would get home, ignore my mom, go up to my room and listen to music and cut until the pain went away. I never cried. I would not let myself cry. When people noticed, simple lies worked. No one really cared anyway. In seventh grade it got a little better. I made a friend. She was super nice, and didn't ask me about the things I didn't want to talk about. She is the reason I'm alive. Then I started to like this guy. He was quiet, calm. I liked him a lot. I asked him to be my valentine, but he said no. About two weeks later he asked me out and I said yes. I was so happy with him. I haven't been that happy in a long time. I absolutely loved him. We broke up in the summer because we never saw eachother. Everyone knew how much it hurt him, but they didn't know how much it hurt me. I pretended I didn't care. I tried to get over him. Then my parents told me I was moving to public school. When I first moved, everyone called me slut, whore, bitch, fat. Then three of them became my friends. I was doing okay. I still cut a lot but I hid it with fake smiles, sweatshirts, and I'm just tired. I'm still here but I don't really know why. Maybe someday I'll find out. The funny thing is, no one ever knew.
