I guess you can say I was a happy child. That all changed when my mother gave my up when I was six. I was adopted.
At first everything was great. I was happy. I don't know what happened but my new sister started to... hate me? I don't know why but she would kick, push or punch me whenever she felt like it. My adoptive parents noticed and so they talked to her about it. I guess talking worked for a little while, though. Four years later when I was ten it started again. She pushed me down the stairs and she would lock me out of the house. I was to scared to say anything, to tell anyone. But they noticed so they talked to her and told her to stop again. So now instead of physically harming me she started using words, sentences against me. Telling me that nobody loved me, that I was ugly, that I was nobody, and a bitch, she even called my 'nothing'. But now instead of crying I unscrewed the razor from a pencil sharpener and ran it against my skin lightly. The next her words started again I cut again, and again. I guess you could say I got addicted to the pain. So now whenever she started with her words I headed for the razor or any sharp metal object I had at hand. I stopped when I realized what I was doing was self harm. But she didn't stop with her words so when I turned fourteen I started cutting again. I started to hate myself more. And one night I swallowed a bunch of pills and cut myself deeper then I had before. It didn't work, I mean obviously I'm here aren't I, I woke up the next morning and went to school like nothing happened. That night was the last time I cut. Yes I do get the urge to cut myself but I don't. And yes she still uses words against me. But now I'm sixteen and still no one knows about the cutting or the suicide attempt. Sometimes I breakdown and start crying. Once in the middle of class I blamed it on a headache.
I am happy now every once in a while. Because I realized I may not have friends who are physically there or real for that matter but I have books and words, my words.
