Twisted and torn is the page that read; I don’t belong- at least I thought my family felt that way. Turn the page and tear it away; now tattered is the page that read I’ve got no stability. What do you know about mental health anyway? It took ten years to heal, and more than half of them didn’t even know what healing was yet. See, you helped me with none of that. I remember the first day depression hit me- it was more than the school bully tugging on my hair. I remember my first feeling of complete hopelessness as I first felt what death was. Nine years old and it’s still the only thought that ever screamed to me so loudly in my life, “What’s the point in anything?” I said to myself so loudly with fear, “I’m going to die anyway. . . So die.” -I told myself to; and my first attempt at self harm, before I even knew what I was it was; Depression came, straightened out the end of an old metal coat hanger, and scraped my skin until it welted over. Swollen, tender and red but no blood -only nine years old. Somehow it just felt better. . .
and of course it escalated later to further self harm of all different forms, but the worst kinds were the ones of the mind;
Always poking and prodding, tearing me down when all I was trying to do is
I wanted to thrive, sure I could go out, feel good with friends, but then when left alone again, here comes the thought;