A life unscripted

Hi, I'm Willow Wilson, and this is my story. Imagine having to juggle a social life, teenage love, and depression all at the same time. It's sad because I went through all of it. Growing up in a home without a mother figure, with two twin brothers who hardly noticed I even existed, I found myself dealing with anxiety, emotional breakdowns, and depression at just fourteen years old. But my story didn't begin there. It began on a cold winter morning when I was nine years old. I woke up to disaster. The screams. The noise. The violence. Yes, the sound of two people I loved fighting. I grew up watching my parents fight, watching my dad raise his hands at my mum while I stood there, unable to do anything to stop it. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I watched in silence. By the time I was in fourth grade, I was being bullied at school for not being perfect enough. I had no friends I could truly call my own, and academically, I was completely drained. I was failing almost every class, yet I was still scolded for it. What they didn't know was what it felt like to wake up to the sound of my mum sobbing in the morning. They didn't know what it was like to feel as though your own father saw you as useless. He only seemed to notice my brothers, Freddie and Austin. They spent most of their time gaming, were hardly ever seen at school, and flirted with girls much older than they were. Sometimes, I wished I didn't have older brothers like them. Brothers who didn't care enough to support me, even for the slightest moment. Brothers who would laugh whenever I got scolded for the smallest things. I remember the days when my mum was the only person who truly cared about me. Then she died. And when she did, it felt like the entire universe had been placed on my chest. I was no longer the Willow Wilson everyone knew. I became more distant than ever. I would go to bed tired, wake up tired, and go to school tired. Somehow, through all of it, I was still desperately trying to find myself. Trying to find answers. Trying to find the path toward the clarity I yearned for. When I turned eleven, I already looked and felt more miserable than ever. I had survived two years without my mum, but the trauma remained. Sometimes, I wondered if anyone would even notice if I disappeared. Would anyone truly care? By eleven, I was already in sixth grade, carrying a reputation as a below average student. But sometimes, the words my mum used to tell me would come rushing back. "Willow, no one's perfect. It's up to you to make your best perfect." I kept those words locked deep within the chambers of my heart. Apart from struggling academically, I was also on the verge of repeating sixth grade. And there were moments when I found myself wondering if any of it even mattered anymore. What was I doing with my life? What was the point of trying? Then I would remind myself that my mum hadn't raised me for nine years just for me to give up on everything she had hoped I would become. I might have been going through a lot, but I couldn't let myself fail the soul who had cared for me so dearly. I was just a minor, young in age, but old in my mind and exhausted in my heart. Yet, to everyone else, I was nothing more than a young girl seeking attention. At some point, I thought I would finally get over everything. But I guess that was just my little heart desperately trying to find peace after being hurt too many times. Then came September 12th. My birthday. I was turning twelve, and no one seemed to care. No one remembered. No one seemed to think I was important enough to celebrate. And honestly, I wasn't surprised. It had been happening for the past two years. But this time, it hurt more than ever. I thought I could get better. I thought I could be loved. I thought I could finally feel like I belonged. But I was wrong. I had always been wrong. Maybe things were always going to remain the same. I stayed in my room that day, feeling completely alone, while my so called father celebrated my brothers for the smallest and most insignificant things. It could be something as simple as getting taller or scoring an average grade on a test. If I were in their position, I probably would have been mocked for being the dumb one. Sometimes, I wondered if Mum was ever remembered or if anyone even cared that she had lived or that she had died. My heart was filled with anger because from the outside, we were always seen as the perfect family. My parents were known as the perfect couple in the neighborhood. Everyone admired them. Everyone thought they had the perfect life. But no one knew that behind closed doors, my mum was living a life where the people she cared about most made her feel worthless. Then came the day I saw my portrait being removed from the walls of our home. The same portrait that had once been placed there by someone I loved dearly. Family photographs were taken down. Memories were erased. Things I still held close to my heart were being removed as if they had never mattered and somehow, I was expected to pretend it didn't hurt. The next morning was just as dark. I had spent my entire birthday lying in my room, thinking about how different my life could have been if everything had gone perfectly. Then, on my way to school, I saw them. Three siblings. A girl and her two older brothers. They were holding hands as they walked, talking about how they were going to get A's in all their classes. They laughed together, discussing what meal would be waiting for them when they got home. I watched them, and suddenly, I felt a lump forming in my throat. I missed the five year old me. The little girl who used to play with Austin and Freddie around the house while our parents shouted at us to be careful. I missed the days when we all gathered around the table and ate together as a family. I missed the days when I could look at my parents and see love between them. Now, I sometimes wondered if it had all been an act. But despite everything, I still missed those little moments. I cherished them more than I could ever explain. And seeing those three siblings together only reminded me of something I had spent years trying not to think about. My mum, how she died, and how the same people I believed had played a part in taking her away were still here, living happily. Living the life she should have been living, the life she deserved, a life where she could laugh, a life where she could be happy, a life where she could still be here and somehow, I was the one left behind, carrying the memories of everything we had lost.