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I’ve seen people opening up here, so I decided I could give it a try, too.
I’m 18, and honestly, looking back over these past 18 years, I can recall far more bad experiences than good ones. I don’t even know where to begin without sounding overly dramatic or melodramatic. I endured abuse at the hands of my family—both emotional and physical—at a very young age; it left me with irreversible scars, including a history of self-harm and even physical scars from the beatings I received. My parents were constantly fighting; my father used to hit my mother, and they both struggled with alcohol problems. I hate looking back on it, but nowadays my family treats me well—despite everything that happened in the past. I don't know if I suffer from any mental illness, as seeing a psychiatrist costs an amount of money that is currently beyond my means. Then again, my family has never been wealthy, or even middle-class. However, for several months at a time, I experience something akin to depression(or perhaps severe depression) then, for a month or two, everything feels fine—as if I’ve been cured—only for me to start feeling terrible all over again. I don’t feel like I want to live, even though I realize there is so much in life that I haven’t yet seen, so much that remains out of my reach. My whole life lies ahead of me, yet this fact offers me no hope. The realization that I will continue to suffer just as I am now, for years to come—is simply killing me. As I reflect on everything I’ve been through, I simply cannot understand what I did to deserve this—why I was literally born with life set to "hard mode," why I’ve had to endure so much. And even when things in my life finally take a turn for the better, I still suffer—tormented by my own stupid mind, and by this terrible body of mine that feels utterly weighed down by a crushing heaviness.
I have never had a relationship in real life, never been involved with a guy. I’ve had some experiences online, but nothing serious. I know I’m not ugly— I’m beautiful, everyone tells me so. Yet I don’t see it in myself. All I see is a mere slab of meat that is still breathing and trying to dress nicely, trying to live and function just like any other human being. I am sociable and charismatic (at least, that’s what people tell me) others perceive me as a cheerful person, but I don’t see myself that way at all. It feels as though there are a thousand worms inside me. When I’m alone and try to find joy in the little things to make myself feel better, I feel as though I’m pretending—even to myself. I hate my body. I hate my scars; I was so foolish when I made them, because I thought I would end my life anyway—so why bother worrying about my body? God, I’m only 18, yet I feel like I’m pushing 40. I’m so ashamed to be this way. Every birthday, I make my most cherished wish: to be happy. Unfortunately, miracles don’t happen—at least not in my life.
But that doesn't mean I can't dream of a better life.
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