Inadequacy.

Chapter One.

For as long as I care to recall, I have always thought of myself as unworthy. Unworthy of what?, you may wonder. Well, if I must, I'll tell you.

Every day was an average day for me. The word 'average' is quite the understatement, because for me, an 'average day' included screaming, yelling, cursing and crying. A lot of crying. Many hours of the day were spent in my room. Being isolated; solitary; unaccompanied. I resented the idea of trailing downstairs, including myself in family life. It mostly resulted in an argument, either which I started obliviously, or was tangled into unwillingly. Vile, venomous words were thrown at each other rapidly. The insults were relentless and horrifically distressing. In the end, I'd scarper, tears welling in my eyes which then began to descend down my flushed cheeks. And those were just the weekends.

School was an escape. I had gained only 2 valued friends. Funnily enough, only one knew what I felt like. She'd often ask me if I was happy. Which is such a difficult question because Yes, I have friends and Yes, I laugh at jokes and Yes, I go out a lot and have fun. I don't really have terrible problems, and my life could be A LOT worse. But then I'd be reminded by myself about how most nights, at 3AM, when I'm alone, laying in bed, still awake, thinking about life, I'd often find myself crying my heart out because I've managed to convince myself that nobody likes me, and nobody will ever like me and I question everything I have. And then I wonder if I was ever happy at all. Somehow, I'd yet again managed to pull through another 6 hours of school. I walked home that day, even though I knew I lived miles away. The distance wasn't a problem, it seemed to be a solution for once. It took me 1 hour and 47 minutes precisely that day to get home. It was a new record. When I'd become face to face with the decrepit, brown, murky door, I inhaled deeply. I'd concentrated on the sensation of my lungs expanding, then feeling them contract as I'd exhale. Really, I suppose it was a preparation for an argument which was undoubtedly going to arise with my Mother, who wasn't very motherly, as soon as I'd step inside. However, it'd seemed I was proven wrong that particular day, which was most unusual. I dropped my bags in the hall, stepped out of my shoes, pulled off my coat and blazer which were to be hung by the coat hangers and glared around, my ears put to good use. My eyebrows furrowed with confusion as I'd naturally search for her, making my movements as silent as possible because I knew how much she hated noise. I'd cautiously entered her bedroom. If I'd been caught that day, I would have been killed. Literally. But I didn't get caught. And I didn't get killed. And I didn't understand why. I glared around for a vague moment. I'd seen these same 4 lilac painted walls countless times as a child. I'd been told to keep my nose out of her room, which I obeyed. That was 3 years ago. Not much had changed. The drawers, which were once gleeming with whiteness but now had faded into an unpleasant grey murky colour, had been forced into the far corner of the room instead of by the window. I'd stepped in the room a little, my eyes were still focused on the drawers. They seemed lifeless and empty, a little too empty. I stumbled over to the drawers innocently, aware of the fact that if I'd be caught, I would be no longer. I tugged at the handle of the 2nd drawer effortlessly, and it slid open quite easily. I glared in, as a scarce amount of clothes were contained. Swiftly, I slid open the last two drawers, rummaging through them. All my Father's clothes and belongings were still intact.. then it hit me like a baseball player hits the inevitable baseball aimed towards him.

She'd left.