Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Today I'm a Writer

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
Years ago my grandfather would call me fat; I could never feel at home. My uncle would follow his lead and my parents had no clue. I felt horrible, I felt useless and pathetic. All these thoughts were going through the mind of a 7 year old, can you believe that? I kept this self-hatred and loathing buried deep inside; nobody knew about my inner turmoil, to them I was only a young child clueless to the cruelness of this world. This wasn’t true, though. While all the other kids would play and laugh I would just watch them, study them and compare myself to them. I was always less than they were. At about 12 years of age I began to self-harm. I didn’t know what else to do or how to deal with all the hatred. I never smiled as much as I used to. I started picking at my skin, hitting myself, and yanking at my hair. Some guys in my class would make fun of my weight and would always tell me I should exercise more. More hatred entered my mind and I never let it out, it all just stayed there boiling within me. I felt like no one cared. My father cared more about his girlfriends, my mother didn’t know what was going on, and my brother had his own problems. I felt alone; I had no one to talk to. I started talking about taking my own life, but nobody took it seriously. I would try choking myself, but killing myself was never what I wanted. When I got to high school it got worse. I started cutting myself. I felt worse about myself. Everything was so different, everyone was so shallow. I became obsessed with my appearance. I had to be skinnier. I started skipping meals and worrying about what I had eaten, how I looked, what everyone thought and it never stopped. I started cutting more frequently and deeper. I would throw up. People started to figure it all out, but I promised it was nothing and I was fine. I wasn’t. I was so unhappy. I hated every inch of myself. One night my mom saw my cuts and she started sobbing. She asked me why I would do such a thing. It was, in a way, a wakeup call. I started my recovery some weeks later; it wasn’t perfect, but I was trying. I had become addicted and stopping was harder than I ever thought. You could say I fell off the wagon a few times and some days could’ve been better, but it is now April 10, 2013 and I am 43 days clean. I am eating again and trying to accept who I am. I’m trying to love myself for the first time. I’m no longer holding in my feelings. I’m writing now. Surprisingly I love it and people don’t bring me down about it. They say I’m good. Now I’m focusing on that, I have new priorities, I have new friends and I don’t feel stuck anymore. I think I may be able to move on with my life now. I’m not saying it’s all peaches and cream now, but it’s better. Some days I wish I hadn’t stopped, but then I start writing and it’s as if the cramped words disappear. I don’t always feel like eating and I don’t always see a reason to smile, but I do hand on every day. I was weak and I am now strong. I was lost, now I’m found. I was trapped, but now I am free. I was a cutter. Today I’m a writer.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback