Until My Last Breath

Mrs. Mary said I couldn’t deliver the letters today. I wonder if anyone will notice. I couldn’t eat today, I felt so sick from everything. I threw up from a granola bar Ms. Catherine made me eat. I don’t understand why they try anymore, it’s a disorder, and eating disorder, not me being hardheaded. I ever so slightly begin wondering if they notice the one blonde girl three rooms down, she throws her food away as all while they think she’s been eating. How could they not? She’s my size, maybe even smaller. All I have to do is sit in this white grey-ish colored room, I feel so incredibly trapped underneath this ceiling and between these suffocating walls. I begin coloring in my candy coloring book, tracing against every outline with bright pretty colors to cancel out the darkness in my mind. I can’t tell if these colors react with my anxiety in a good or bad way. They make my brain feel calmed, but when i think about my dad the colors feel like they’re screaming into my face and through my brain outside to the world. I never use red when coloring. The letters I pass out down the halls are mainly just encouragement ones. I’m sick of the false sense of hope these doctors give us about getting out, instead I like to encourage people to know their self worth and to do better to be on their way out. Some days I wished someone would make me one. Every night when I lay to go to sleep I watch How I Met Your Mother and pretend my life could be as normal as that. I know it’s not my fault I struggle with these things, but it is my brain. I try to not tend to hate on my body for the things I cannot control, but sometimes I wonder if I could. If I were really worth something I wouldn’t be in here. I want to be able to help myself the way I help others. A bit of that started during high school, I was everyone’s support system and my friends always vented to me, but when I struggled with my at home life nobody cared to listen. I tried numerous times to tell people what was going on, but they made me feel unimportant. Not a day went by I didn’t feel like a burden to those I love. All throughout high school my dad abused me and my mother, along with middle and elementary. Until the age of 13 I didn’t notice it was abuse, all I ever wanted was my dad to just be nice. I blame myself countlessly for not noticing my mom never eating, her black eyes, cut arms, and bruised stomach. I blame myself for not speaking up when I had the chance. My mother was the greatest impact of my life and i’ll always look up to her despite her being in the place I feel I should’ve been sent to instead. At my age of 16 I watched my father brutally beat my mother unconscious and assault her in the most disgusting traumatizing ways. I’ll never forget what my mothers closed, dead eyes and used body looks like ever. Sometimes when the room is dark or it gets too quiet I imagine it, not because I want to, my brain just engraved it, and the red couch last saw her at..