A letter from Jun 4th, 2021

Dear Mother, When I was 13, I developed depression. It wasn't that bad at the time, but it's the reason I had to learn to fake my happiness. I learned to fake a smile. By fourteen I thought I had gotten over it, I was actually happy. But then something happened. I don't know what. But I felt like I just, broke. I was no longer happy again, I was depressed all over again. But it was ten times worse. Nothing could really make me happy, I felt all alone. I wasn't that alone though, I had my mother she was always around. My dad had work, and my brother lived in front of his computer, he was happy with his online friends as far as I could tell. I felt alone, lost, desperate. I didn't want to be alone. The first time I self harmed was October 11th 2019, I cut myself with a full knife. The pain felt good. The pain helped me take my mind off the lonelyness. I still have the scar on my wrist. (Being homeschooled only made things worse. I'd never had a chance at making friends, never had a chance to help the lonelyness. I really was all alone.) After that day I learned other ways to selfharm. Such as chewing on the inside of my cheek until it bled, digging my finger nails into my palm, pealing back the skin on my thumbs, sometimes stabbing myself with sewing needles, punching and slapping myself. Anything to take my mind off the mental pain. That's why I got into makeup (at 15) and writting (at 13). The writing allowed me to play out scenes in which I wish I was my character, being happy with their loved ones. The makeup was because I found myself ugly. No matter how many times someone told me I was beautiful or pretty. I just couldn't believe. Because I didn't agree with them. At age thirteen, I gave myself a temporary "tattoo" with a sharpie; 'Begin'. It stood for when I began to love myself. But now at sixteen I feel having a tattoo like that would be lying to myself. I don't love myself. I feel useless, like I should have never been born. If I ****** myself no one would miss me. I'm a waste of space and money. Just a plain waste of sperm that could have been used to give birth to someone better. Someone who wasn't so broken. Wasn't so ugly, and unhappy. Just anything that wasn't me. Maybe in 5 years I'll love myself, or maybe I'll be dead. Either way. I don't blame you for anything, you didn't know what I was going through. While I do have this dedicated to you as my mother, I don't think I'd have the courage to ever show you, this. I have nothing against you and I don't blame you for anything, and I love you. You didn't know what kind of pain I was in, or am in since I'm still dealing with this depression as I write this. You gave me everything I needed. It's not your fault I started starving myself. And at first, I didn't do it on purpose. I remember when I was fifteen you asked me why I needed outside influence to make me happy. It's because I had no other reason to be happy, then to watch others be happy. Watching/reading about other people's happiness that I know I don't have. It made me feel better. As ****** up as that is; that's why I like horror movies. Watching people "suffer" made me feel better about my life. That's why I liked romance, watching/reading about other people have something I know I never will. I enjoyed watching other humans have something I didn't. As much as I know it's a fake. I liked to pretend it's not. The reason why I'm writing this isn't because I want you to feel bad, I just needed to vent. And as I'm writing this, I want to die, everything hurts inside and I don't know why. It just does. This sounds like I goodbye note but I promise it isn't. You won't ever seen this. In 5 years I'll be twenty-one, and maybe, just maybe. I'll finally be happy. Love, your daughter.