How come people are allowed to make you feel this way? I mean, shouldn’t there be, like, a law or something that makes it illegal to make someone feel not as “popular” as you.

I guess this is a little…unreasonable. But, come on! How come you’re allowed to make me feel miserable? Why is anyone allowed to put me on a rung in the ladder we like to call a social life (whatever that is)…can’t I choose my own rung? H***! Can’t I choose my own d**** ladder?


“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” ~ Eleanor Roosevelt.
Well that’s bull. I didn’t hand out invitations that said:

You’re Invited!!
Please join me on my road to self-loathing and depression. Please bring hateful words and some sort of food.


Even if I had done this, it’s not like anyone would have (willingly) come…and yet people still found a way to climb into my heart and rip themselves free from the inside…leaving me with a damaged vital organ and no way to ever love, trust, or feel loved again.


So, I didn’t have a lot of self-respect.

It was the first day of fifth grade. I know, it’s a young age, but the story has to start somewhere. I took the annoyingly flamboyant yellow piece of tin to school (it smelled like B.O.) and stepped out onto the cement that would lead me into the school I would be in practically everyday for the next 360 days...ok, only 180 days, but still, I’m trying to make a point.

I walked in and immediately felt out of place (that first day of school is always really awkward). As everyone began to settle in, and everyone began to talk, I just sat at my desk fiddling with my thumbs like there was something on them that I couldn’t get off. I noticed that everyone began to form cliques. If you don’t know what a clique is, it’s a group of people that are always together and make it a point to leave other people that aren’t in their group, out of everything that goes on. Really annoying. At least, that’s my definition; you may have a different one. But to this day, they make me want to pull out my hair and sink my teeth into a pillow.

So anyway, I realized almost instantly, that I didn’t have a clique. In fact, I had no one… To make things worse, I couldn’t think of anyone from my past that was my friend—at least no one that wound up making me feel like c*** by the end of the year. So I started to become a tiny bit depressed.


You know how sharks can smell blood from, like, really far away. Yeah. Same with kids. They smelled my loneliness and depression before I even did, and they began to circle me (figuratively, not physically…although that would soon come). Any ounce of insecurity that you may have had or currently do have in your body, is enough of a reason to attack. So they did. D*** it, they did.


It wasn’t that bad to begin with…a few stares here…a few shoves there. Really, people only treated me like I was lesser than they were. So, I coped. But my dealing with their shark like ways became obvious. And as I grew up, so did the jokes and harassment. C***.

Example A)
“Get out of my way you stupid nerd.”

*Side note* I actually liked this one. I always thought the definition of nerd was someone who was smart and got exceedingly high grades…someone who wasn’t stupid…so really the person who called me a “stupid nerd” was the stupid one (or just ignorant), but that’s beside the point.

I was most definitely not smart, so, I just came to the conclusion that people were going to call me anything they d*** well pleased no matter how idiotic it sounded and no matter how much sense it made. That’s kinda how it went for what seemed like…well, forever.

As the harassment grew and evolved, so did my depression and self-hate. Everyday was a struggle. I had to convince myself just to get out of bed in the morning because everyday I felt like dying.

I felt like dying. Let me say it again…I wanted to die.

Who would miss me? I’m the ugly, “nerdy”, ignored, not yet developed (if you know what I mean), girl who no one liked to talk to but everyone liked to make fun of. It’s not like the world would be tipped off its axis if it had one less Patricia Keen sucking in its oxygen and trashing its surface.

Night after night, I would fantasize over the way I’d do it. Should I “put out my light” the way Jimi Hendrix (accidentally) did it? You know, some sleeping pills and a good bottle of brandy? I heard of this lady who actually ate herself to death. She literally binged on sugary, hydrogenated, fatty, c*** until the contents of her stomach spilled into her body cavity. Obviously she died. But hey, I like sugary, hydrogenated, fatty, c***…

These thoughts consumed my body and mind. Yet, every time I had an opportunity to take my life…gosh, it sounds so harsh…every time I had the chance, I chickened out. I could never go through with it. Something kept holding me back. Maybe it was that stupid voice in my head that said not to. God, that thing was getting obnoxious.
And, I mean, it’s not like I haven’t heard all of the stories of people who have attempted suici…to take their life—as soon as they start, they regret ever trying in the first place. But maybe I was different. I’m sure I’d be a lot more respected in heaven than I am here. I’m not wanted here, but god loves everyone no matter how totally and completely screwed up you are (unless your, like, a psycho killer that goes on rampages over the stupidest things--because then I’m pretty sure your looking for the lower, more hot, level of afterlives).

I decided to listen to the voice inside me and wait a while longer before I…well you know.

My one and only friend was my stuffed animal lion. You couldn’t really call him a lion anymore. I had him for so long that his mane got all squished and looked like…well not a mane. So he just looked like a squirrel. But I loved him. 1) He never made fun of me. 2) He never gave me back talk. 3) I could tell him everything--he was the person…well, thing really…that I had all my conversations with. 4) He reminded me of my younger childhood. That time when no one made me feel the way I do now.

So, my lion-squirrel made me feel not as suici….take-my-life-al. He’s not important to the story, I just thought that you’d like to know about something that I actually liked and cherished because there wasn’t a lot of that in my life at the time.

As I fell to the floor I realized that I wasn’t completely pissed off. In fact, I was content with the situation I was in. Sure, I had about seven heavy-set dudes crowding around me ready to beat the shi…eh hem…c*** out of me—but I mean I was already depressed what could they possibly do to me to make me feel like even less of a person? Ok…I can think of a few things. But they didn’t have the guts to do anything other than punch me or whatever.

So yeah, I was falling. And I smashed into the ground. It took a few seconds for the pain to come, but oh boy, did it come. It felt as if I fell onto a knitting needle and it pierced through my flesh. Probably had to do with the fact that these dudes were football players. I mean COME ON! Seven football players against one girl? Not fair.

But it was no big deal. I spit in their faces when I got up. Turn out that tends to really piss people off. The only real damage I had was a bunch of bruises and a bloody nose…the damage on the inside had already been done. But incidents like these would continue on until…well you’ll see…


So what’s a story if there aren’t any guys involved? Yeah, that’s right, this is going to be one of those chapters. You know what I’m talking about—where the author (that would be me) talks about how they can’t find love and no guy seems to like them.


Well, that’s not entirely true. There was this one emo kid that wanted to form a “pact” with me, if you catch my drift. But I was like ‘h*** no, you creep me out. And besides…I’m listening to the little voice inside of me.’


So no one likes me. No one’s attracted to me. And I wonder why that is…Could it be the depression? Awkwardness? Shyness? No-boob-ness? I do have nice skin though, so that’s a plus. But seriously, it’s like no one likes me. And since I’m depressed, I really need someone to love me and tell me not to hurt myself.


Every single person I have ever been attracted to or really, really liked, always liked someone else. Happened until the day I……..yeah.



So I grew even MORE depressed. As it turned out, it, uh, it, it was possible.


Do you know what happens to a car when it sinks underwater? As it fills up with water, it’s being pushed, and like, compressed with so much weight and force that the doors of the car can’t open. So the person inside has no way to get out because the doors won’t open because of the water pressure. However, once the car fills completely with water, like there’s no more oxygen in the car, the car is completely submerged underwater, the doors will open. Scientifically, this is because the pressure of the car inside matches the pressure being pushed onto the car…or the pressure of the water outside.


So, why the hell am I bringing this up? My soul is that car. Slowly, over the course of my life, I was sinking. And I couldn’t find a way to break free of the depression that was the car. The water is this case, was the life I was living. I couldn’t open the door. So I continued to sink, and sink, and sink.


Now, normally you would suffocate to death before the car is completely filled with water. To aid in my metaphor let’s just pretend I had superhuman lung capacity, or whatever. So I was alive until the entire ‘car’ was filled with ‘water’. Now my soul could break free.


If you didn’t quite get that, here’s another explanation. My entire body became so completely filled with depression, that it was all I could ever think about. It ached in my joints, my back, my heart, my mind. I mean, I couldn’t even sleep at night. So I had to break free. I had to let my soul go. I had to open the car door.


So I did…

Now I’m dead.