I’m not good enough they say. You’re never going to make it in this world. You’re a failure at life. Nobody is going to love you, nobody should love you. Nobody likes you, they shouldn’t like you. Why would they like you? Everyone hates you, they should hate you. Your nothing, a nobody. To some you don’t exist, to others they just don’t care. Your invisible. Alone.

People say all of these things and its degrading. They don’t understand what it does to you. How it tears you apart. These words, they make it seem like your life is falling through the cracks of your fingers. The mentaly you. It kills you from the inside out. People say oh he’s just going through a hard time, it’ll pass. But then the days grow become darker and you begin to not act like yourself. You push away your only friends, grades drop, you stop coming out of your bedroom. Your parents find the poems, the art. They hear your music but can’t understand it. They’re worried for you, they want to know why this is happening, or even what is going on. But you don’t let them in. Instead you push them away.

You tell them that your fine. That’s nothing wrong. It’s a phase, that it’ll pass in a couple of weeks. But then it gets worse. The drawings become more violent, the poems more painful. Then they see it. The blood. What finally happens when your pushed to far. Soon they blame their selfs for not seeing it before. Or that they were just to niave to see it. You tell them not to freak, but they don’t listen. Soon they send you to terapy, but you don’t talk. Instead you just sit there and stare at the wall. The clock ticking away the time just like it does your life. You want to get out of this room. The silence is unbearable, it feels like a weight that you can’t remove. The terapist clears his throat but never says a word. I don’t think he knows where to begin. Times up. It’s time to go. As soon as he says that I’m out of the room. No looking back. No time to waste. I have to get out of here. Maybe if I act like everything is ok, maybe they won’t make me go back. But can I put on a charade?

Dad believes it. He believes the charade. But mom still has her doubts. I think she knows that I’m faking it. That it’s just something to give them strengh, just something for them to hold on to. Just like they would your old baby blanket. But soon I have her believing it. My grades are back to where they use to be. I’ve learned to hide the drawings and poems. The music stops. Clothes are turned back to the way they use to be. But the degrading keeps going. Before they just ignored me. They talked about me behind my back. I’m not stupid. I know what they said, that I was on drugs, that I went off the deep end. And maybe it’s ture. I am on drugs. But it wasn’t speed or even weed. But the pain of it all. Before I went off the deep end things where bad, then they were ok when I changed because nobody paid attention to me, but now that I’m “back” things are worse then before. They scream things down the hall at me like “hey freak, nobody wants you and your freakish ways here“, or my personal favorite “nobody wants you here, why don’t you just finish what you started and take that blade deeper then you do now and just finish the job”.

Things get worse. Your drawings begin to show up and the poems aren’t on paper anymore but anywhere you can write. On a napkin, your hand and even your wall. The cuts become deep and the lies become more frequent. The music begins again and soon the black out begins. Your parents begin to worry, but you let them. You don’t care anymore. Soon school goes back to the way you where before. Nobody sees you, but you here the lies about your self in the hallways. You see the sideway glances you get when you walk past the cheer leading tea, or they when your in gym, your always picked last but you don’t get to play anyways. People go out of their way just so they don’t have to walk near you. It’s like you have some kind of decease that’s going to kill them instantly if you just brush past you.

It gets worse. The cuts are more frequent, deeper. The drawings leave the paper, but end up on your wall. The poems are every where. Soon it’s to much to bear. You write the note to your parents saying that your sorry. Then you do it. You make that one final last cut. The one that will end it all. You love the way it feels. The way the blood feels running down your arm. The warmth of it. You know that there’s pain, but your just so numb that you don’t feel it. Soon your blacking out. You try to wake up, to maybe stop the bleeding. Now that it’s to late you don’t want this to happen. Your not ready to give up. You just wish someone would come home already. To save you. You black out again. But you hear it. People talking, no they’re yelling comands. They’re trying to stop the bleeding. You try to open your eyes but you can’t seem to do it. But you feel it. They’re saving you.

I woke up disorinated. Scared. There was beeping. A lot of beeping. Everything was white. It was to white. I tired to think back what had happened. Then I remembered. The cut, wanting to take it all back. Everything. I try to be tough because I know a guy isn’t suppose to cry but I can’t help it. Mom tells me it’s ok. That I’m all right. I tell her that I’m so sorry. She woke up dad who looked like he had been sleeping for awhile. Soon I found myself telling them everything. They didn’t judge, but just say and listened. I begged them not to send me back and they promised that they wouldn’t on one condition. I went to therapy and actually talked. But this time I agreed.

I went to therapy and talked for the hole hour. I told him what the kids said to me, what they did to me. How I began believing what they where telling me. When my time was up he stood up and gave me a hug. Things are better now. I may not go to school but that’s fine with me because for once in my life I feel loved, cared for, and happy.


Bulling, discrimination, low self-esteem. Whatever you want to call it, it don’t matter. It’s all the same. They all destroy you. Teens are the worst. They get carried away. But also they don’t see what it’s doing to the kids that they pick on. In the someone usually always gets hurt.