A Story About Someone

She was 16, a French immigrant living in Houston, Texas. With her family at the dinner table gathered around for a meal, a thought would play on loop in her mind. “What if I left?”, “What if I started fresh?, “What if I wasn’t here anymore”. Was it the cutthroat house she lived in or her own mental sabotaging herself? Was it the years of depression and trauma built up? What made her have these thoughts? What made her want to cover her body with cuts over the years? What made her suicidal? What happened to me? Ten, going to a very fancy private school, teacher's pet, talkative, energetic, what more can you ask from someone who shined? School was fun, most times, it was nice being able to show off how I could do well in school. It was nice being able to show off and get praised. I had some friends, some bullies, whatever. I was happy, I think. Other than when I’d raise my legs off my chair because I was told my legs were too fat, or when I’d suck in my stomach when I was close to my crush. Or when my best friend would lie to my face about the craziest s**t. “There’s a magical portal to candyland in my room”, I couldn’t help but look back and laugh. We had our own secret language and I’d always give her piggy back rides. Eleven, I’m in public middle school now. It's a good one. Nevertheless, in all advanced classes, the translation wasn’t easy. I became emo, dark, depressed, and spent more and more time on my phone. How much I wish I had been smarter on the internet. Meeting strangers in their 20’s exchanging nudes or starting relationships. Then came the threats when I wasn’t obedient. If I refused to send the nudes, they’d threaten their lives over it. It’s an easy way to manipulate someone. I thought I was dark and deep, misunderstood, but I was just a dumb emo kid. Twelve, these relationships only got worse, the lies piled onto each other, that I was 16, that I wasn’t living in my parents' house, that I was mature. Pictures of my body, on top of the pictures. Hundreds. Things that should’ve never been captured, permanently on the internet. The fights with my mother only grew. Every day it was something different; my clothes, my screen time, my messes, my mistakes, my classes, my attitude and feelings. Pick and choose out what today’s screaming match will be about. Every day, I played games for hours with these men and gave to their requests. After all, they gave me something I craved so badly: attention. Thirteen, my mind has finally realized what I’ve been doing, I quit it. The day after my 13th birthday, I broke up with him. A twenty-three year old named Zach from the army had a fiance who killed herself. Seven months, we were together, dozens of photos, hundreds of hours, so much private information. One day, he convinced me to take 12 shots of vodka and leak my address; puking my brains out on recording was not in my ideal plan. He got deployed, so we separated. I didn’t start healing till years later. I spent the rest of my year locked in my room, crying, cutting, and bottling my feelings. Fourteen, my mind told me my mental issues, illnesses, problems, self-consciousness, were because I was in the wrong body. That I was actually a boy; so here we are, on the journey of self-discovery. The fights didn’t stop with my mom, but now, I avoided as much as I could. I slept during the day to avoid talking to my parents. Not having any friends but my phone and staying shut in my room all day. It started to smell, the days of not showering were imminent. “You stink” were the words to come out of my brother's mouth. Then something clicked, this isn't right. So I bought a wig, and it started to make sense. I was a girl. So I started growing out my hair, I finally felt some normalcy and reached out, started making friends, becoming more social, less depressed in my head, and decided to move schools. Fifteen, my hair had grown a bit, I started improving my makeup skills, and buying more female oriented clothing. I moved schools. I was now a sophomore attending a humongous school. Started making friends, started doing more drugs, vaping, smoking, snorting, popping, didn’t matter, I don’t discriminate. Met a couple of girls, made a group, went to homecoming on acid, found a best friend. Life was looking up, it really was. I met a boy named Tavo: 16, drugs, money, guns and danger. He was my first love, disregarding my previous ex and his inability to understand the word “no”. Things were good, until they weren’t, things became so incredibly complicated and like a recreation of my relationship with my parents. Fights, broken promises, trust issues, no communication, being used for my body and money, you name it. I break up with him, call him wanting him back, he breaks up with me. I go crazy. I was already crazy about him, he was the only thing on my mind. So I pressed and pressed over and over again till months later I found out he was dating three girls at once. The two overdose suicide attempts are also worth mentioning, both followed by a mental hospital visit. Did I stop? No. First diagnosis of bipolar. Sixteen, here I am, living it, it's been 2 months. My head filled with thoughts that would crush someone. My head filled with thoughts of guilt. My head filled with thoughts of self-doubt and hate. I did all this. I caused this. My life is a result of my actions and choices. What can I do now? Everywhere I look I’m haunted by a memory of this or that. At night I can’t sleep, I dream about the past and feel guilty. The memories of the fights, the hitting or choking, the screaming, the arguing, or where I took photos, of those men. This can’t be life, I have to take back control, I can’t let my trauma become me, I can’t let myself get down on my future because of my present. So here I am taking control. I’m leaving, I’m listening to a voice I ignore so often. I’m taking the easy way out, the way where I don’t have to be responsible; the weak option; I’m running. I’m leaving the place haunted with bad memories, ones that fill me with guilt, regret, anger. God, I really wish fresh starts were real. If we could start over with people, how much would we do things differently? How things could be much better, how your mistakes could be fixed and problems solved. The past can’t be changed, however, but you are in control of your future. You and you only, decide where you go, how you live, who to love, and what to do. I want that control. So I’m taking, taking it the only way I can see how, leaving. Gaining my independence and life back. Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m a p***y, but who am I to care now? I can’t do anything more. I can’t keep trying for 2 years. Goodbye.