I hate myself. I hate everything I’ve become. I hate my new found self-esteem and the way I feel that I am better than others. I hate the fact that I am so defective that I can’t keep a boyfriend for more than two months. I hate that I obsess over small things and that I am so f***ed up inside. I hate the fact that I can’t tell when someone is bullsh**ting me or not. I hate how you f***ed up my d**che bag detector and left me vulnerable. I hate that I can’t love. I hate that I don’t have enough will-power to stop hurting myself. I hate that I feel fat at 102 pounds. I hate that I can’t call you anymore. I hate that when I’m wrapped in the fetal position and crying my eyes out, you’re the only person I want to call, because I know you’re the only person who will actually understand. I hate how you made me feel special and pretty and loved and wanted. I hate that you threw my trust out the window and left it to burn and rot on the side of the road. I hate everything that we’ve all become. You’ve turned cocky and act as though hurting girls is some sport that you enjoy participating in. I hate you and I hate me and I hate everything. Sometimes I truly wish that I could just make it all end. Stop the pain and the crying. The hurting and the cutting. I wish that I could just hurt myself just one last time. The final wound. One that never heals and one that will never go away. But what does it matter? When will it ever? If you can’t even sum up enough will power to act like you care, why should I expect anyone else to truly care? They’d probably throw a celebration. They’d be happy that they don’t have another miserable person walking this earth. Ruining their ‘image’. Ruining your image. I hate you. I hate Naweed and I hate what he did to me. And, even worse, I hate that no one believed me. Not even my own father. But what could I expect. I go to the library and he immediately thinks I’m going to have sex. He thinks that I’m such a bad kid. Such a waste of a human life. I’m never good enough and never will be. He doesn’t even care enough to see that I f***ed up my leg this weekend and can’t walk without limping. He doesn’t see that I flinch in pain each time I take a step. How my foot is twisted in an unnatural position. He doesn’t even notice my wrists. The scars and scabs I have from pulling that sharp edge across them so many times. No one's noticed. No one cared enough to. I stopped eating for two weeks, and got my weight down to ninety-two pounds. You didn’t notice then either. When I walked I had to hold up my skinny jeans so they would fall off my already petite frame. You’re the defect of the lot. The father on the beltway whose hardware was damaged in an accident, but they needed money, so what the h*ll? It’s only one kids’ life they’re going to screw up. No big deal. No one gets it. No one understands. No one has gone through as much pain and suffering and sh*t that I have. No one can relate. There’s not another straight-A suicidal high school student out there. There’s no hospital volunteer that likes to sit in her room with all the shutters closed and the curtains drawn and the lights off and no music, no sound, no television. Who thrives off of rainy days and cloudy forecasts. No one else works their best when they’re depressed. No one is less loved, less wanted, less appreciated than I am. But you would never believe that. You’d just think I’m overreacting. Being a drama queen. “Pity party; clean up on aisle ten.” A melodramatic teenage girl who lets her emotions control her thoughts. Well, that part is true; partly. Sure my emotions control my thoughts and my actions; I’m not a robot. I’m not unbreakable. I can’t get thrown around and hit and pelted with all this bullsh*t. I’m going to crack. Do you know how there’s always those people in your high school that you’re nice to because you’re afraid that they’re going to shoot up the school one day. Well, that’s me. But I wouldn’t kill anyone. Unless you showed up, but you probably wouldn’t. I was sexually assaulted and all you did was ground me, because apparently that way ‘my fault’. I forgot, my mistake. I asked some guy to push me in a corner and stick his hands up my shirt and down my pants. My bad. I’m always the b*stard child to you. The one who was never wanted. You should have just made me a dumpster baby. Thrown me out when you saw that I wasn’t what you wanted. When you saw that I wasn’t a boy. But I can’t live up to your expectations. I enjoy being by myself. I like being a loner and venturing off with only my own thoughts to keep me company. The library? I always go there. And I tell you I’m going to ‘study’. You think I’m there to give blow-jobs. But the truth is I go there to be by myself. No one bugs you at the library. The universal sign to “Leave me the f*ck alone”: put your IPod in your ears, sit down, and read. No one in their right mind would ever dream of disturbing you. Though I was once by the really hot senior who asked for a pencil. I made the mistake and gave him the one I was using. Usually I’m not that bad around guys. I usually never get nervous and I can carry a decent conversation on sports or stupid slap-stick comedy shows. I know how to play football and I’m not that bad at it either. I can throw a ball and I can make a goal in a net. I can laugh at a perverted joke, and I can smile at a stupid one. But what I can’t do? I can’t take a compliment. Even if my life depended on it. I guess that since I was always raised around not being ‘good enough’, I can accept someone telling me I am. Sure, I hear the words, “Wow, you’re really pretty” a lot, but so what. I usually just shrug them off because I don't even see myself as cute, why would I want anyone else. I liked being one of the guys. I loved it actually. They treated me like everyone else, but this year, this year, everything opted to change. My blonde hair in a pony tail was gone and replaced with perfect curls. My glasses were exchanged for contacts and mascara. My jeans and tee shirts, gone. And now in their place were miniskirts and tank tops. My converse? Thrown out. Gone. Replaced with gold flip-flops and pretty brown flats. My training bra was replaced with 32A’s. Still small, but worth showing off. My hips grew in and I received an a*s. The most shocking of all, I began to match. No more red shirt with blue jeans and brown shoes. Or green capris and black tee shirt with red converse. I looked hot. I was the farthest thing from a freshman in high school. I looked like a senior, but the perks, weren’t worth it. My freshman year has sucked. My cockiness got so far up my a*s, it was like a tampon string loss in the abyss of womanhood. Dating juniors: big deal. I could do it. Dating sophomores: bring it one. Dating my best friend........ uh, no. Wrong. Negative. Possibly one of the worst mistakes that I’ve ever made. Because when the only person who was ever successful in making you stop crying is the person who made you cry, you’re f**ked. You can’t do anything. You’re stuck handling it by yourself. And my coping process usually ended with more slits across my wrists & hips and a couple of full throttle head bangs up again the wall. I spend most of my nights crying myself to sleep. Wait, who am I really sh*tting with any of this? I spend all my nights crying myself to sleep. But you wouldn’t understand. No one ever would. Because as much as I’d like to get help, I can’t imagine talking to anyone other than you. Trusting someone that I barely know and telling them everything. I guess that’s just not me. Keeping it all inside may seem worse for everyone else and probably seems as though it’s doing more harm than good, but that’s just me. I can’t change myself. And I’d be crazy if I let you change me. Because... Because... because, I hate you. I do. I truly and actually hate you. I hate everything. I even truly hate myself and all I’ve become. I hate my family and my friends and the moment I turn eighteen I’m collecting my college education money and I’m moving to Washington. I’m going away and I’m never coming back. My kid won’t know you. Won’t know any of you. Perhaps they won’t even know their father either. Perhaps I won’t even remember who he is. Because that’s what you expect from me. You think I’ll get knocked up and when reality finally hits me I’m going to go running back to you. I’m going to do this big leap into your arms and shriek, “Daddy! I need you!” but you’re sadly mistaken. Because the words out of my mouth are going to be anything around the subject of forgiveness. They’re going to be “F**k you. F**k you I hope you die and rot in h*ll. I hope you never were born and I wish I never was either." But isn’t that just your wish, too?