Hear My Truth

Chapter Two

Noun: Inadequacy; inability to deal with a situation or with life.

      What really bothers me the most is that (some) happy people think that you can somehow get "rid" of mental disorder. That's not how it works. I don't like the term mental illness. It's almost offensive in a way. I use mental disorder. It seems less harsh. I hate it when people say "Happiness is a choice" because that's like saying depression is also a choice. It's not a fucking choice. If it was, I'm positive no one in the world would be depressed. I hate it when people say "Suicide is a cowards way out". No it's fucking not. People who have depression do it to get rid of people like them. We do it because we know we will suffer from chronic sadness for the rest of our lives, even if we go through treatment. We do it because we know people will make fun of us and bully us wherever we go. I know you're probably thinking, well, that's life. It's not the life we want to live. Bullying for us is one thousand times worse than it is for the average happy person. 

      I never feel like I'm enough. I never feel like my actions are normal. I never feel like I'm a good person. I never look at myself in the mirror like "normal" people do and think, I'm pretty. No, I look in the mirror and think, I wish I were dead. I'm so ugly. That's what I think. Day after day of being tormented by my own mind. Week after week feeling more sad than the week before. Month after month feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted. Year after year feeling numb and ghostly. The constant fear of being alone. The fear of living. The fear of leaving my damn house! I couldn't escape it. I just couldn't. I wasn't strong enough. I never would be strong enough. I never would be enough for anyone or anything. I sat in my room everyday and only went downstairs to eat. I only left the house to go to school. I became so afraid to go to school, I began skipping. I was afraid of getting bullied at school. I was afraid of certain people. I was afraid of certain teachers. I was afraid of myself. 

      I felt defeated. I felt numb. I felt inadequate. I just sat all alone in my bedroom. Silent. The darkness of sadness leaking out everywhere. The blood draining from the long cuts on my wrist. It was everyday that I cut. Every damn day. I was thirteen almost fourteen. My wrists now have scars that won't go way. Two cuts in the shape of a broken heart. The heart with the crooked, jagged split right down the middle. The letter M for my best friend, who I loved like a brother, who betrayed me, and broke my heart. The letter H for my ex who would hit me when he was drunk, who I loved, who broke my heart. Two R's for my ex who was everything, and was the first to not abuse me, who was so amazing, who said he loved me, but didn't want to deal with my problems so dumped me and moved onto a new girl in a day, the guy who truly shattered every last whole piece of my heart that I had left. Vertical cuts from trying to slit my wrists and have all my blood drain out until I would stare, lifelessly, to the wall. Cuts on my thighs. Parallel scars one centimeter in between. Scars on my stomach and upper arms. Messy, jagged lines. Scars on my hands and fingers. Scars on my feet. Scars on my body. A total of two hundred and forty seven scars that mark my body, each one telling it's very own story, whispering the memories that feel like nightmares, in my ear.