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I miss the days when everything was so simple. I miss the days when the only things I had to worry about after school, were girl scouts and the coloring assignments I had for homework. I miss the guys who used to be my best friends, and yet, I’m scared to see how they’ve grown. Because, I know I hate how I turned out. I hate that I’m so old for my age, I wish that I didn’t have to see the world the way I do. I hate that I can’t trust people. I hate that I’m still angry at my mother for the four miserable years she put me through. I hate that I can’t tell her that…

I want to cry when I wake up every morning, and the first thoughts that go through my head are about how much I hate myself. How much I really, truly, hate myself. I hate our society’s view of beauty, and that I can’t compare to it. I cried when I realized, that I can in fact hate. I couldn’t cry when she died, and yet, when the sirens sounded I screamed. I screamed because of the fear she drilled into me. The fear she only reinforced when they would yell. When I’m alone during a particularly bad thunder storm, I want to hide under my covers. Because it’s not the thunder I hear, it’s yelling. I can’t handle loud noises, I never could.

Vulnerability was never something I could do well, because she would pick up on it and use it against me. I learned that time, and time again. But it really got to me when she called me and “ugly little b***h”, she knew my looks are something I struggled with, and still do. She knew, and she used it to break me. It worked. But I couldn’t let her see that, I couldn’t let her use it against me. But then, she really didn’t have to. She already made it seem like I was the reason everything bad that had ever happened to her, was my fault, and my fault alone. I was her scapegoat, that was my role in life… And I wonder, will I ever be able to escape that role?

I don’t think any child should ever have to live with what I did. But I also know that so many go through worse. I was one of many, many who were mentally beaten every day. I am who I am because of it, for good or for bad. I managed to preserve whatever fragment of a child existed within, and one day, I hope she’ll be able to come out and play. But for now, the only me that exists, is the one that protected the child for so long, the one who has built walls, and wears masks. But sometimes, when the tears come easily, I know that the child I was hell bent on keeping alive is still there. And she misses her friends, and her mommy. I wish that I could feel that too, but for now… I’ll take my walls, wear my masks, and hope I can be who I used to be. Even if it’s just for a little while.