TW: Mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/attempts, sexual assault, and bullying
My 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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