TW⚠️ : self harm and suicide, drug mention

I grew up different from everyone else. In school when all the kids would play tag, or ball, or on the playground during recess. I sat by the entrance door - Criss cross apple sauce style - miles from everyone else. Well, that's how it seemed when you were small. everything was so big and so far away. I sat by myself, looking at everyone, seeing the different interactions.

I'd see the mean girls bullying the kid with glasses and frizzy hair. I'd see the boys tackling one another in the field, scoring what they considered touchdowns on the 30 yard field. I'd see a group of girls making friendship bracelets. Kid's playing family on the playground. Others pretending as if they were flying on the swing set. Everyone having different conversations, creating different memories. This is the first time I experienced the feeling of sonder.

Being in elementary, growing up with the parents I did, seeing the things I saw, caused me to grow up faster. Made me mature quicker growing up. Which could be a good thing when you're older, but it makes you different and unrelatable as a kid.

By the time I got into middle school, I was beginning to experience things you don't tend to experience until a little later in life. I had my first experiences with what I know now is anxiety, and first time experiencing self harm. It's not "normal", per say, to do and feel those kinds of things before you even get your first period. But I did. I did feel and experience those things at a young age.

It went unnoticed for a while. Also because of the fact I never spoke up about it until it got too serious for my young mind to handle. It began to scare me. When I first spoke up about my thoughts of suicide, my feelings were made invalid. I was told things like, "it's hormonal", "it's a trend", "everyone feels like that at some point", which I'm sure is true. But I told those things, not seeking for a response, but for help.

I didn't speak up about it much since. That was up until my first attempt. I didn't go to my friends, or my parents, or ask for therapy. I went to the counselor who suggested I did tell my mother and try therapy. I took me begging and pleading to my mother for her to let me go to therapy. I never told her why I wanted to go, except for the reason, "something isn't okay with me." I couldn't tell her she was the reason why. Despite her words and actions, I love her, I want to protect her and guard her feelings.

When I had my first therapy session, I hesitated the whole time. I didn't want me shing light on the truth to come around and bite me in the ass. I didn't know her and didn't trust her. Even though I was the one who suggested it. I think it was because it have been the first time I opened up. After a few silent sessions, I finally opened up. I intended to just say enough to make my chest lighter, but I couldn't Getting a little out felt so good that I just threw it on her. I told her about every single skeleton that was in my closet. Bones and all. I won't get too into what I said, because of the sensitivity of the topic. I don't want to put my burdens on you.

My therapist was my first real friend. She promised she wouldn't say anything and kept that promise. She gave me really good advice and different tactics that helped me mentally that wasn't self harm. I saw her twice a week, gave her daily updates, positive and negative, I even called her once a week. She wasn't just someone I could trust, she was the ears that I always wanted to listen to me. To understand me.

I went in for a session one day, but this time when I went, it was different. Something was off. She stepped out for a moment, only to come back with two police officers, one that held my sobbing, screaming mother in handcuffs, and a lady who was dressed as if she just left a meeting in the oval office. My heart sank. I knew it was too good to be true. She promised she wouldn't tell, but she did. The oval office lady was a social worker from DCFS, and I knew I fucked up when I learned that. That's because I was already in the system. I been their before, twice actually. And if you didn't know, after the third time, you can't leave until they feel you're ready to leave.

The look on my mothers face was nothing but pure hatred. She said the cops told her everything the therapist told them. Everything I said in the last eight months of me going. My mom knew. She looked at me with hatred and told me she wanted me dead. She was instantly placed under arrest But why did she look at me with hatred? I didn't neglect and abuse me. It wasn't because of me that we were homeless. It wasn't my fault she was a felon. But still she hated me.

After my first night of foster care, this go round at least, I stayed up all night. Looking at the ceiling, regretting every thing I said. Not because I'm in foster care, or I screwed things up for myself in a way, but because of my mother. I resented her for inevitable reasons. But I wanted her happy. I would've done absolutely anything for that. I held my tongue around her and always gave her so much leniency. I defended all of her wrong doings. She might have drove me to have the suicidal thoughts I had, but she was all I had. She was my family. My dad was absent. Reachable, but absent. All of the self improving I did in the last eight months, went straight down the drain.

After staring at the ceiling for some long, quiet hours. I decided to give in. I went into my foster family’s tool shed and grabbed the sharpest knife like object I could find. I cut long vertical lines in my legs and stomach. I didn’t want to stab myself in the chest or hand myself or anything like that. I wanted a slow agonizing death. All I ever did was sit in unbearable pain my whole life. I wanted to do it one last time. I wanted to make my moms wish come true. I wanted her happy. I’d do absolutely anything for that.