TW: Mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/attempts, sexual assault, and bullyingMy initials are not CJ. I will not share my name, my location, or my appearance. I am thirteen years old, and the only thing I allow myself to share is my story. If you find your way to this post know you are not alone and you are never too far gone. I was born into a broken home. My parents fought- everybody does really- but their fights were different. Trackers in my moms bags, tears on her pillow, and her feet dragged when she walked.
My parents ended up divorced [a year and a half after] which was probably for my benefit. Then my dad took me for a while. Apparently that was somewhat illegal and I didn’t see him until I turned seven. I moved in with a nice older lady who I will call Lilac, because she loved those flowers more than life itself. I lived in a small red house a few miles from the beach and Lilac taught me about nature. She would let me “help” plant flowers and I would name them. I remember naming one and she used it to name her granddaughter, that was the first time I felt important. I don’t have many nice words to describe my parents. My mother is obsessed with diet culture, smoking, and hating on people. My father is a businessman with little business. He is remarried and I have a stepbrother who I will not attempt to rename. My stepbrother and I used to hate each other, he never wanted a sister. My parents, my sibling, and everybody around me was dumb. I was a prodigy. you can blame the autism, you can blame my teachers, but for whatever reason, I was some sort of special. My parents didn’t make me feel special, they made me feel bad. As I write this, I am sitting next to my mom after she called me mean. I had a neighbor who I used to be best friends with. She was a year older but immature for her age and we got along. I drifted apart from her last year. There are so many things I could mention right now, my addiction to self-harm, my suicidal thoughts or attempts, the multiple sexual assaults and bullying incidents from my past. I could mention my eating disorders and my sexuality, or the fact I’m trans but can’t tell a soul. But I am a popular girl, bet you didn’t expect that. I hang out with friends every day, spend money on overpriced leggings and my whole life revolves around social media. On the odd chance you read this and recognize my story, say nothing. The scars on my wrist are fading now and they aren’t even visible anymore. You have no way of identifying me. Thank you for reading this. If you decide to take away anything from this story take away this: hug your friends. hug your family, tell them you love them. I am chronically ill, and I don’t know how much longer my heart will beat like this, I wish somebody would hug me.
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story of depression, self harm, suicidality and survivalI was 13 years old when I got diagnosed with depression. The anxiety followed shortly after. During this time I would call myself nocturnal. I was on a strict sleep schedule of wake up at 6pm, eat “dinner” that was actually my breakfast, stay up all night, and once I heard my mom wake up at 7am I would go to sleep. My depression started getting worse and I eventually stopped going downstairs for those dinner meals, and soon I stopped leaving my bed all together. I started to feel so numb and to feel anything at all I started to self harm. I hated what I was doing and knew I should stop but I just wanted to feel anything again. After months of this happening I felt one single thing. The pain of my mom. I thought about how my mom would feel if she knew I was hurting myself. The thought of me bringing pain on my mom was enough to stop me, and of course it wasn’t really that easy. I relapsed and craved and struggled but in the end I came out on top. I thought that was it but what I didn’t realize was depression is a life long illness and while I had almost made it 1 year self harm clean I started to slip into the worst depression of my life and one night I wrote everyone a cared about suicide notes. I decided to swallow pills, but I guess it wasn’t enough because I woke up the next morning. For the next 2 weeks I was drowsy but alive so I never told anyone about that night. Now looking back a year later and almost 2 years clean of self harm, I still feel my depression and anxiety all the time but I am so unbelievably proud to say I am alive. I am living and there is so much to my story but at the end of the day something has kept me on this earth so whatever it is I’m taking it as my second chance.
story of depression, suicidal thoughts, and manipulation (TW)When I was in the eighth grade, a lot of things happened. I changed a lot more than I’d like to admit. At the age of thirteen, I didn’t have a lot of friends. All the people I associated with were just my classmates. The “friend” I did have took advantage of my family and I a lot, but I didn’t know that then. Anyways, at the age of thirteen, I didn’t know who I was, I was just living day by day. I was in love with my first boyfriend, and I thought he was going to be my forever. I made a joke one day to a “friend” and said I thought about breaking up with him and she went and told him. To avoid the embarrassment of a boy getting broken up with by a girl, he broke up with me instead. It was just a joke, honestly, but to him it wasn’t. Him and said “friend” ended up close. This is what I remember starting it all. At the age of thirteen, I told my mom I didn’t want to be alive anymore. What was her response? “You better get your act together or I am going to send you off!” At the age of thirteen, that is not what I wanted to hear. I wanted comfort. I wanted love. I wanted empathy. You may be reading this thinking, “you were literally thirteen, you didn’t know what love was. It was literally a little break up.” And you are so right. The sad thing is, I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t receive what I was craving. Everyone interprets love differently. I didn’t know that back then, but I know that now. I know my mom loved and still does love me, but she never showed it in the way I needed it. Especially by telling me she’d “send me off”. That made me feel like I wasn’t worth fighting for. That made me hide every single negative emotion I ever had. In high school, I always thought I was “dramatic”. I was always told it was just a part of becoming an adult. The reckless voices running through my head telling me I’d never be good enough. I wasn’t good enough to receive love then, why in the future? No one knew who I truly was. I could never be myself around anyone. No one heard the silent screams I cried at night. They saw the puffy eyes, but they never meant anything. Anytime I showed emotions, I was told to get over it and that people have it worse than me. I know they do. I know they did. I never once said they didn’t, but I was always silently crying for love, empathy, support, etc. I thought therapy was for people who were way worse than me. Worse than someone who self-harmed, attempted suicide in their bedroom many of nights, but stopped because they thought of their family and what it would do to them. Worse than someone who would look up ways to end their life for only the hotline for suicide to come up. I just needed to get over it because it was just a part of growing up. As time went on and I graduated high school, my thoughts got worse. I manipulated myself into horrible thoughts every chance I could get. I started to realize a lot of things in life and about people around me. I lost a lot of boyfriends, but I started losing my best friends. I felt like everyone was turning on me because I’m unlovable or that is what I’ve learned so far. In my next chapter of life, I met someone amazing. Her name is “P”. P was someone I waited for my whole life. P made it seem like the world spun in her hands. P’s family was amazing. They welcomed me into their home like I had been there all along. But I forgot. I am unlovable. P began putting things before me. P’s family began turning on me. P’s family would begin manipulating P into thinking I am unlovable. I knew I was, but I hoped that wasn’t the case with P. I wanted to be with P so bad. I’d promised myself I’d do whatever it would take to be with P. I went from seeing P every day to barely seeing her, but I was unlovable, so I understood. P began to get very abusive towards me, but I loved P. I loved P so much, I stayed even when I shouldn’t have. I stayed when there was cheating. I stayed when there was abuse. I stayed when I was told I was a piece of s*!+. I reached out to people who I thought took me in as their own just for them to tell me, “Leave him”. I was always the bad person, but to their advantage, I never told them the truth about P. I thought it was just part of growing up. P had no clue what all I thought at night and how bad I didn’t want to be alive and honestly, I didn’t care either because I just wanted to make P happy, even if that meant I was miserable. But then I realized how miserable I was. I’d cry at night so hard I didn’t even know when I’d take my next breath. I’d cry so hard. At this point, I didn’t want to die. I just wanted the pain to end. As my next chapter begins, I realized a lot. I realized wanting to not be alive every single day was not okay. I realized crying because God did bless you with another day, wasn’t okay. I broke down and saw a therapist for myself. If you have gotten to this point in the story, I want to stop to say, there is no “normal”. If you ever are wanting to feel “normal”, then you are never going to get there. Everyone is different. Everyone has something that may be so small to someone else, but so big to you. This chapter in my life saved my life. I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, severe depression, and a mood disorder. I was put on medicine for all my symptoms. Taking that leap of faith on myself is the reason I am here telling this story. P is still in my life at this point. P didn’t know I was going to therapy. She believed I should just get over it as well. One day, P found out where I was. And it isn’t going to be the reaction you’d thing because I was dreading it too. Ever since the day P found out I was going to receive help, things flipped upside down. P and I sat all night long and talked. She let me spill everything I thought out with no judgment whatsoever. She cried and apologized all night long. She blamed everything on her, but it wasn’t just her. Unfortunately, I felt unloved way before her, but now, not after her. P’s family never got better, but P started taking up for me. P finally saw the things I did and knew the lies her family was putting into her head. P saw that he was getting seconds from his family. P saw how much favoritism there was. Therefore, it was my turn to be there for P. P started therapy and fortunately, I knew what he needed support wise. As for my family, I still show no emotion. I don’t even know if they know I’ve been in therapy, seen a psychiatrist, and almost been “sent off” by a licensed therapist. Maybe my mom would have been proud, I don’t know. But I never want her to find out. I know if she knew this story was about the person typing this, she’d never be able to forgive herself. So, I do still hide my emotions, but I’ve learned how to cope with them as well. There is a lot more I could tell and probably make it make more sense, but I try not to trigger as much as I can. Please, take your mental health seriously. You might think, “it’ll never get better”. Honestly, I can’t tell you it will. I can only tell you that you learn to cope. You learn there is more to life. I wish I could speak to whoever was reading this and tell you it is going to be okay. It will. I know you are rolling your eyes while reading this, but it will be okay. You aren’t just dramatic. You are lovable. You deserve a life that is worth wanting to wake up in the morning, even if it is only to go back to sleep. Sometimes getting up from bed is the only thing we can do on difficult days and that is okay. If all you did was survive another day, that’s okay. Whoever is reading this, I am so proud of you. And if you don’t feel like you have a reason, just know, you are the reason I am writing this story. You matter to me.
story of self harm, dermatillamania, and parental abuseDuring my 8th year of existence, I began a rare form of self harm called skin picking, otherwise known as excoriation disorder. Around 2-5% of the population have this disorder, and it's most common between the ages of 13-15. I could never initially pinpoint exactly why I did this. I certainly never knew how to stop, either. My parents spent money on dressings and treatments, but I couldn't seem to stop. I have continued to do this right up until now, but I'm slowly realizing things about it. I now know it gets worse when I am anxious or upset. I know that it is worse when I am at home for prolonged periods of time. I have been mentally and emotionally abused by my mother since birth. She never helps me to feel good about myself, and targets my flaws. Due to this, I always feel like that, if I am already ugly and a bad person, then I may as well continue to pick at my skin. If I could stop, I would. I would give anything to rewrite the past 7 years, and take my disorder out of it, but I can't and I am working towards healing myself.
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