My Fucking Mess Of A Life

Hurting.

I could hear them. My mother talking to my father. About me. This is what I always think about. Anytime I hear people talking but I can't make out the words, I think they're talking about me. It's irrational and paranoid. I can't help it. This just proved my paranoia wasn't baseless. She was saying about how expensive it would be to get me into a school that could help me. She was talking about something called an education lawyer. I don't know. I don't care. All I know is that I'm stressing my mother out and potentially causing them to lose a lot of money. I hate it. I don't know why they didn't just switch to a different language. They do that when they don't want us to understand them. They knew I was there, just two rooms away. They probably assumed if they whispered plus had the TV on I wouldn't be able to hear. I was. I tried to focus on what I was reading but I couldn't. I felt tears start to prick at my eyes. I forced them away. I couldn't do that right now. A few minutes later my dad walks past me on the couch on his way to the steps. I pretend to read. My mother comes in to show me what she bought today. She's smiling. I can't stand knowing that I'm putting so much stress on her yet she pretends I'm not. I just sit there smiling as she shows me item after item. When she's done she notices I'm still smiling. "You're happy. Too happy. That smile is mischievous. I don't trust it." There's a tone of joking in her voice. I force myself to let out a small chuckle. I don't think I've ever given a more forced smile in my life. Why couldn't she see that? They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that was true, anyone who would've looked into my eyes would have known that despite my smile, I was the farthest from happy I've ever been. I couldn't stand it anymore. I said I was going on a walk and left. I went to the one place I always go when I need to be alone. The park. I sat on my swing and let out the sob I'd been holding in since I first heard them. Seconds later, tears were streaming down my face and I was sobbing uncontrollably. I stopped at one point and started again later. It went on like that for the hour I was there. The crying went on and off. My mother called me telling me she was on her way back home and I should be there to greet them. My sister had been in Europe for three months and tonight she was coming home. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want her to see me like this. I had to though as I needed to turn on the oven so her food would be warm. I ran home, hoping I could beat them from the airport. We lived quite close so it wouldn't take long for them to get home. I turned on the oven and rushed upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. I took out the small blade I kept in my phone case. I needed to do it know before they got home. I dragged it across the already scarred skin on my left shoulder. The familiar lines of red appeared within seconds. I continued on more than usual. I had so much I was angry at myself for. So much that my mind decided I needed to be punished for. Making my mother stressed, making her hide her stress so as not to make me upset, eating too much at dinner, making my sister come home to a suicidal sister who self harms, not being in school, etc. I stopped once I heard the front door open. I heard my parents and my sister talking. Once upon a time, I would have been ecstatic to hear that voice in person after three months. Now all I felt was guilt and anger at what she had come home to. She came upstairs and I heard her open my door. After seeing I wasn't there she knocked on the bathroom door. "Occupied". She made a joke about me not only not welcoming her home but also taking the bathroom. I forced a laugh but all I felt was guilt and anger. It was as if all other emotions had been erased from me. I quickly wiped my arm off and opened the door. She was in her room with my mother. When I walked in, my mother made a comment about how I looked very pretty at the moment. My sister agreed. I made myself smile. How could they not see that I had been crying seconds prior to this? How could they think that that was pretty? How could they think I was pretty? A memory flashed through my head. "Beauty is pain." My sister used to say that when I would complain about how it hurt to have my hair brushed because of the knots. If that was true then I should have been goddamn gorgeous. I continued on and gave her a hug, making sure my arms went on top so she wouldn't irritate the fresh marks on my arm. I still winced when I lifted my arm, though. I carried on like nothing was wrong. I always do. All I can do is wait for the day when it stops hurting. When everything stops hurting.

4/3/17