I am from pizza and breadsticks,

from fidgets on long car trips, SkyJo with my aunt, reading books into the night.

I am from the house my dad practically rebuilt where I sit in my room all day, hiding from the world, snuggled under my covers, reading my favorite book, or listening to Taylor Swift to drown out the yells as my family screams at each other. I can hear them anyways. I used to pretend they were all in my head, but that just made me seem crazy.

I am from the trees I helped my dad plant as a child. I was innocent back then. Now, I am from the daisies that grow along my favorite creek, the one I would always run to when my family got to be too much, and sit, my choked sobs drowned out by the rushing water, from the lake at my cousins house where I nearly drowned once.

I am from sitting in my living room every Friday night, dog asleep on my lap, pretending to have fun with the rest of my family as they turn on some movie they love, but really, I just want to go back to my room and sit there, typing my pain out into my book. It’s what I’ve always done, after a fight with my parents where they tell me I’m not good enough, after they compare me to my friend behind my back, not knowing I could hear them. But I could, I could hear them asking what’s wrong with me in hushed whispers as I went to bed. They never heard my cries though.

I am from long, flowing blonde hair and blue eyes. From people telling me I was lucky, lucky to have the hair they’ve tried chasing after for years, lucky to have eyes like diomonds. I never saw it that way. So really, I’m from staring at the mirror, sobbing, wondering why I was so ugly. Too fat, too dependent, too rude, so… unable to be loved.

From Ginny, the dog that became my sister I always wanted, my best friend. The one who I would cry into when my parents left for dinner, her eyes seemed to understand me, more than anyone else had.

I am from Emma, the mom who taught me to always be myself, and not care what others think. But it’s _hard. _She treats it like it’s such an easy thing, but I never could, and that only made everything worse for me.

I am from the family who taught me everything I know today. They shaped my beliefs, no matter how hard I tried to fight it, locked in my room, biting back the angry insults I wanted to yell at them. I _wanted _to scream at them, “If you really did love me, you would act like you cared!” But I never did.

I am from late night movies where I feel guilty about eating a single scoop of ice cream, from annual camping trips where my parents threaten to leave me behind in the camper if I don’t “control my temper.”

From a place where they say “never give up!” That was my dads motto. So whenever my trying enough _wasn’t _enough for him, he would yell.

I am from taking responsibility, even when it hurts. Even when _I’m _not even the one who did it. Even if it was actually my brother slapping me because he was mad I didn’t let him have Mac & Cheese.

From always doing the right or kind thing. “Well, mom and dad, if you want me to act like that, why don’t you try it for once.” I want to snarl at them. If I did say that though, I would get in trouble. A lot.

I’m from Salt Lake City, where we used to live in a small run-down apartment that I’m told I would have meltdowns in daily, from England,

and my dad’s burgers and homeade tacos. The ones I would gobble up as a kid, but now just sit there picking at my plate and trying to make it look like I ate something, blinking away tears. If I tell my parents about my disordered eating, they will just send me to a dietitian and control my life even more.

I am from the barn wall that nearly took my brothers life. I still remember it very well. I was climbing a tree at my Great Gramdma’s house, to get away from my family, and they was taking down an old barn. Then a thud. Screaming. And my brother being rushed to the hospital with a broken femur and three layers of stitches in his head. I saw the cut. I will never forget the blood. I haven’t climbed a tree since.

From my other brother who screams at me, telling me I’m a horrible sister and deserve to die. Words like that, they cut deeper than I think he realizes. Because my first suicide attempt, was after my entire grade hated me, mocked me, fat shamed me, and when my brother told me to die, something snapped.

I am from a family I used to think loved me. Now, I lay awake at night, scared I might be depressed, wondering if they really do. Wondering if I really _am _good enough. I have better friends now, ones who _don’t _make me feel like a piece of washed up trash they found rotting on the side of the road. They tell me I’m good enough. My parents do too. But then I hear them talking crap about me behind my back, and I believe them.

_Wow. This turned out a LOT more dark than I expected it too. I kind of gave up on the original prompt, so… yeah. Anyways, sorry for taking so long to post! Right when I got back from California, I went camping with no wifi, and then I got grounded. I will try and be as consistent as possible from now on. _

_Also, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who’s followed me, liked or read my stories! Your support means so much to me! I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, but I’ve never actually posted it before, so it still feels a little crazy whenever someone likes or even reads my writing. So thank you to everyone for your support!!!_

_You should go check out brynlee, _✨🍄_Amaryllis_🌙✨_, _🪻_Delphinium_🪻_, and Just Another Teenage Girl_✍️_, they have some of my favorite stories on here! (And I’m sure there are so many more people I have yet to meet who also have great stuff!) Have a wonderful day, everyone!_