When I was ten my nana whom I was extremely close to died of cancer, and it affected me severely. I promised her I would look after her husband no matter what. I tried my hardest but he took advantage of me and sexually abused me for two years. When my mum found out we went to court and we lost, my family disowned us and now we have nothing. My life seems to be falling apart more and more each day. I cut myself often it takes away my pain whilst I’m bleeding and it sets me free for a short time, but then I hate myself for what I have done to my body. I’m seventeen and life doesn’t seem to be getting any better, every day hurts more and my pain and suffering builds.
The Living Ghost
There’s nothing amazing or original about my story. There’s nothing that makes it more magnetic or more interesting or more disastrous than your average. It’s just a rant. Just a release before the blade. I don’t want to cry or ask for sympathy because there was a time when everyone thought I was strong. Now struck down with intolerant weakness I’m smothered in disgusting pity resenting every tear.
I’m sixteen years old. When I was ten I threw a mirror against the wall in my anguish and as I scraped up the pieces a sliver of glass slashed open my palm and instead of anticipated pain I found sweet relief.
Since then I have hardly lasted a day much less a week. For years my own secret behind a smile. Hating myself for who I am and hating others for being so happy.
It came to a head in November and now the world knows. The world knows every inch of my scars and it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make anything better, it doesn’t make the voices go away. If anything I am more isolated than before, drowning in stigma and apathy.
I’m sixteen years old with twelve suicide attempts behind me and thousands and thousands of scars that won’t fade but will sit there my whole life. However long that may be.