I never thought I'd be alive and breathing to see my graduation day.
It seems a little bittersweet that it's actually almost here, and thinking about it makes me want to cry.
Some people think that being sad is just a thing, and honestly it is a thing for some people.
But if you know me, you know. And even if you don't, I do, and that's what matters.

In freshman year I moved here. Into the woods. Into an isolated house. I turned into a recluse.
I was sad, for the silliest reasons. My brain could not get me out of the funk I was in. Nothing could.
Every day I would immediately come home and lay in bed in the dark and stay there for hours.
And people would try to bug me, and occasionally get me to come out. But most attempts were far fetched. I didn't want anything to do with anything. I always went back.

After awhile I tried to hold friends or different boys' attention to get my mind away from having such a difficult emotional issue. That didn't really work. I just got hurt more and more and all of the baby steps I made forward were pointless then because I got shoved farther back than I was when I started.

I sound like I'm saying I never talked to anyone, and wasn't acting in a way people would see desirable, which isn't true at all. I would be friendly and genuinely nice to people, but once I started opening up to people they got freaked out and backed off.

I was just really lonely and upset about my life and everything in it, and I know to a lot people that sounds pathetic and attention seeking since I was so young, but it was real and that's all I really have to say about it. It was scary.

I took high school relationships and problems so seriously. But it wasn't my fault. It was just how my brain is wired. I take everything so seriously, since my brain and my thoughts matured so quickly with all the hours of uninterrupted thinking laying in bed alone for a year and a half brought me.

So basically, no sugar coating or cherry on top, I stopped eating and started self harming. Not like a little bit. A lot. Bad.

I lost 25 pounds in less than two months and wore dozens of bracelets to cover wrist bandages and scabs.
My wrists never scarred because I took care of them so well. Not while they were being mutilated, but afterwards, I mean.

And the worst thing about all of it was that nobody noticed.

I didn't want anyone to comment about my wrists, (which did happen occasionally, and was by far the most embarrassing and degrading thing I've dealt with) but I wanted them to notice what was really going on and notice that I was hiding something, but most of the time nobody did. And if anybody commented on my weight, it was congratulatory, which I found strange and ironic because I was starving and eating one tiny bit of a meal at dinner so my family wouldn't realize what was happening.

I know what you're thinking, get this girl therapy.
Well I did get this girl therapy, and therapy doesn't help. If anything, I felt worse afterwards. I'm too shy to tell a stranger that I slit my wrists for no real reason. I wasn't abused as a child or raped or anything. I was just sad. That's all there was to it. I was sad and ashamed of who I was, and doing that was exhilarating to me because I was actually in control for once, and I felt like that me being in control should be taken seriously, and I wanted to hurt myself as a form of discipline. Like, "You aren't good enough for anybody, not even yourself. I'm ashamed of you. Here, hurt yourself to show yourself that you could be better."

To someone who doesn't have depression and anxiety issues, it really seems like a hard concept to grasp and really get your head around. And I completely understand, I'm borderline crazy to you.

So I tried to kill myself, which didn't really work out, disappointingly.
I would have rather just burned out before people started realizing what a self obsessed, whiny, horny little twat I was.

So overall, therapy was a doozy. I wanted to die. The room was small, crowded and messy. Her peach tea tasted like leaves, she wasted our time talking, and she fucked up my schedule so much and blamed it on me furthering my stress. And now I feel like if I went to another therapist, she would diagnose me with post traumatic stress because of my old therapist. And the worst part was that I couldn't even admit to her my most basic problem; self harm. The only thing she did for me was listen to me ramble about my reoccurring dreams, diagnose me with overall anxiety, extreme social anxiety, major depressive disorder/clinical depression, and slight post traumatic stress. Anyways. That was all I really wanted, really. To get diagnosed with something, or anything, just so my family would stop thinking I was just being a dramatic little bitch. Which they didn't. And they still refused to let me get on any medication, which about killed me. The little person inside of my head was screaming at the top of her lungs every moment of every day for two years. I just wanted a little bit of a break, but I eventually realized that a break wasn't something in my grasps, unless I killed myself, (which I tried, as noted) but I didn't want to cause myself and further embarrassment if I failed again, so I planned (and still plan, if I eventually get too fed up to deal) on just crashing my car into a tree so it looks like an accident. Even though now everybody knows that, I might have to plan to do something else stupid and negligent. Anyways. If you're going to try to kill yourself I suggest not doing that, not because "life is worth it" but because if you fail you look like a giant poser faggot and everyone thinks you're this huge pussy who can't handle anything and you probably won't be allowed to take a bath with the door closed or use anything other than a plastic knife to cut up and apple. So yeah.

Anyways.

I always listened to music. I had a certain taste, and nobody I knew really had the same taste. Which was kinda dumb, but pretty cool because I just got to explore things by myself.

Eventually, I don't even know how I did it, but I ended up at a show at the Quesadilla Factory in my junior year, wearing a Ramona Flowers costume, fully equipped with a blue wig. I'm not sure if it was because I wanted to go or because I had nowhere else to wear my costume, but I was there. And I fell in love with it. Other than the fact that someone standing behind me made fun of my Death Cab for Cutie bag, causing me to turn it around so the logo was against my side.

So I started going to these, "things". And I really liked them. And I was a HUGE poser. I just wanted to make friends and fit in and stuff, I understand where little me was coming from, and I understand that it was a bad idea in retrospect, but in the moment I figured anything was worth a shot. So there I was. Spending my parents money at shows on pop punk merch, and eventually after joining beauty school, spending my own hard earned money at shows on pop punk merch. But I had a couple of good friends, and people I enjoyed to be around even if we were strangers, and I started meeting people who had followed me on the internet and I was really stoked on everything. I'm not saying I wasn't sad, but these shows were like a therapy to me, and whenever I was bummed I'd just go to one and feel joyed. At least for awhile, you know. But eventually people started having a genuine distaste for me, which hurt, because I never really deserved it. But I dealt with it.

At this time I also had my first real relationship. Most high school relationships don't count, but this one did I think. It was real. I actually spent time with him outside of school and made sure he knew how much I cared about him. I really loved him, but we didn't really have the same morals since I was straight edge at the time and he was definitely not. He was respectful to me, which I appreciated. And I was respectful to him, as long as he was being somewhat smart about his choices. He did take note that I was going through a horrible phase, which helped me start to be myself a little bit more and stop liking things to fit in. (This also made me reconsider the straight edge which resulted in me breaking edge, months later because it just wasn't for me) I loved him a lot, and he loved me a lot, and it was pretty cool for awhile. It was hard though because I was busy with school and he thought that having a boyfriend should sort of, I don't know, "cure" my depression. It didn't. He helped, yeah, and we fucked like animals, which was cool and took my mind off things. But regardless, I ended up sitting on the same futon we so often fooled around on, crying that I just couldn't do it anymore because I'm too sad for someone to think they could fix me.

It hurt a lot, yeah. But what did I do? Screw around with the only person who could tolerate me. The next day. And the repercussions of my actions on those two days almost a year ago still effect my daily life to this day. When you're sad, sometimes you act on impulse and don't think about what you're doing to others or yourself. This was one of those cases. And the next few months were the hardest for me to deal with. As dumb and as pathetic as that sounds.

I don't really know why, but people started being mean at the shows I went to. I was just trying to support and get my mind off of what was going on in my personal life, but people brought it there. And a room of people laughed at me for my choice to go to beauty college. It was free, and a chance to get out of school, so of course I would take that up. But I guess it makes me stupid and a bunch of other stuff I prefer not to touch on. So I don't know how it became trendy and cool to hate my guts, but it did. Fast. People I didn't know and had never talked to were spreading nasty rumors about me and calling me nasty names. It isn't even them doing those things that made me angry and sad. It was that I was still going and supporting them without realizing this was going on at first. And after months of this and me slowly realizing what was going on I started to complain, obviously. I'm a teenage girl with social media, that's going to happen. I guess me complaining was an open invitation for these people to be mean to me directly. And for people to watch my every move waiting for something they could hound me for. And as all of this happened, and it made me self harm myself more than I ever had bothered to before because my safe haven was turning into a fucking war zone and I wanted to die. And saying sorry can never, ever take away the feelings these people I supported gave me. I was even more sad than before, which was really quite a feat, I'd say. These people were like, living to make me feel like shit and they were damn good at it. So what did I do after that?

Basically, in simplest forms.
Dropped off the face of the earth.
Blocked everyone online and dropped shows. I would rather feel sad and alone at home. I still feel that way. I could be out supporting and doing something, but why support them? I don't like the fake act. I know you don't like me and I know what you said about me. You ganged up on me and harassed me even more when I stood up for myself. I thought that the scene I had so strongly desired to be apart of was supposed to be a big family, not a big group of bullies making fun of a girl that was at first to shy to stick up for herself.

All of this fucked me over hard. And I was mean to all of my friends and people I didn't even know because I was bitter and I wanted to die. The only reason I didn't die was laziness. I was so sad that I couldn't even act upon it. That's bad.

I still get random "hate" from people I've never met and it bums me out.

And going to school, and dealing with the people there. It bums me out. 

I'm sad all of the time. Even when I seem happy.
When you are sad for so long, you start learning how to fake emotions really well.

Sometimes are worse than others, like when you open up and tell all of this to someone who ends up leaving you when you need them the most, and replacing you without a second thought. Like when people you don't even know are calling you out for being, well... you. That's not fair and we're all guilty of it. No one should consider ending their own life for doing nothing other than being themselves and their own person.

Some of the ruckus I caused got cleared up, and I got some important people back, but I can't just go back to a "norm" because I was never part of the "norm" at all.

So it's May 21st. I have 3 more weeks of school left. And if you would have asked me any other year, even just six months ago, I probably would have said I wouldn't make it out of high school. But I'm doing it and if I cry, it's not because I'm going to miss the assholes and the ridicule, it's because I'm in awe of it all and I'm in awe of me sticking it out.


Whatever happens now, at least I'll be able to say I toughed it out through high school. And all of these assholes that made me feel lower than I've ever felt are still here. But not seeing them and dealing with them on a daily basis will be a pleasure. And being able to say that I toughed it out is a pretty cool thing. 

And everyone who was a nobody in high school and took pleasure in making a high school girl feel small are still there, and will always be. But hey, at least I made it to this milestone. I still am more sad than ever, and I will probably stay sad for who knows how long. But at least I can say I did something that everyone needs to do. I have finally reached the goal I've worked towards for my entire life.

Graduate. It's simple.
We live to go to school until this point. School is all I know. Feeling sad and being ridiculed for being myself in such an immature environment is over.

I'm not saying everything will be peachy now, but I'm pretty confident in myself when I say that now immature idiots won't bug me on a regular basis.

And at least I can say I ended up a better person, at least a little.

We work 18 years at this and when we get here we're done and free to do whatever we want. Whether it be nothing or everything.

I just want to hike and explore and take pictures and have fun, and now that I have no commitment to being in a place I don't want to be, guess what? I can do whatever I please to make myself happy.

And I'm hoping that I eventually succeed and make myself happy.

Some people want to be a vet or a doctor or travel the world to help people, but I guess I don't really care about helping. I just care about being alive and being mentally stable and being able to say I overcame hardships. Even though I'm still in them now, when I'm done here I am open to do anything I please.

I can travel, I can move anywhere in the world, I can save my money for anything my heart desires, and start fresh somewhere new and maybe, just maybe I will stop feeling so low and maybe, just maybe I will end up the happiest girl on earth. Who knows?

Some people loved high school and some people had the worst time of their entire lives there.
And I am the latter.

But if that's the worst, the best is yet to come.


That's how it works, right?