I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Was all I could get out as I screamed in front of the vanity mirror my mom bought for me when I was younger. The tears continued to stream down my cheeks as I tried to process why I wasn't good enough. Why every time things became just the slightest bit okay the world was there to take it away? As if the skies of blue that everyone sees and loves was watching my every move waiting for the right moment to push me down when I'm already at my lowest. There are no skies of blue in my eyes because if the world isn't rainbows and sunshine then it's also not always blue as clear. All I have seen and lived in are dark times and cloudy skies. I'm hurting and I am hurting bad but no one will ever know. No one will ever know that the girl they see smiling that morning is the same one who cries herself to sleep. They won't know that the girl who takes in deep breaths of the summer air, also wishes that her breathing would one day just stop. That all the repetitive motions of her breathing in and out and the feel of her heart beating, as her lungs throb from all the pain while trying to just give her the minimum oxygen required to live. Has anyone bothered to ask her if she is okay you may wonder? Yes. Many have asked. More than 10 to be exact but out of that number, how many of them are the reason for her pain? Is the reason her back is bruised and bleeding because they stabbed her in it? Most of all, how many actually genuinely care and aren't asking just so that when she dies they won't be the first target of you didn't this and you should've that? Probably all but I wouldn't want to make that assumption if I genuinely don't know but that's what I hate. I hate not knowing anything. Not knowing how my future will be or if things will get better. The only thing I know for certain is I'm tired. That no one is here to wipe my tears and pat my back and tell me it's okay. That I pick my own damn self off the floor I've been sitting and crying on for hours and get up. I'll wipe my tears and smile in the mirror at the pathetic excuse of a person I see myself as and walk out my room like nothing is wrong. As if I am not living in my own personal hell. That is life though, right? If I went up to any older adult and said I'm hurting and things are hard, the common response is that it gets better. When? When does it get better? I am tired of hearing that it won't happen on my time or that it's on god's time. I am drowning and as fast as I come up to breathe and catch my breath I'm pulled back under. I'm suffering so bad and for what? I'm 17 and haven't even graduated high school. I may not even make it with the way my life is going. The only words I can leave behind on this god forsaken earth are the same I would take to my grave at 17 mother-fucking years old. I tried. Imagine the backlash I would get if I stated that living and breathing. As if I walked up to my school counselor and said, "I am trying but I can't do this anymore." The long lecture of yes you can and you can do anything you set your mind to. Well shit my dear old counselor, I set my mind to death about 3 years ago. I must be an absolute failure if I can't even kill myself correctly. As I imagine laughing at those statements, I also imagine the frowns and disapproving looks I'd receive. Here I am though, 17 and smiling as I walk my sad, suicidal ass out of my room ready to conquer another dreadful day in society. Will anyone know how pessimistic I am? No. Do I believe I am pessimistic? No. More of a realist who is trapped in the reality she didn't choose. That is life and this is America. I didn't choose this life. This life chose me and I'm stuck with it. This is just before the future though and I'm not even ready to see tomorrow.
