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The Story of A Girl

Before you judge someone, remember, you don't know everything they've been through

By Michelle SchultzPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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The radio blared as the salty water ran down her face. She couldn't help it. She just didn't feel herself anymore. She stared at the wall, through the tears, and couldn't help but wonder why she felt like this. She felt blank; not happy, not sad, not mad, not really anything. She just didn't feel at ease anymore. She thought of everyone around her. It was all coming to an end. She thought she was starting to be okay with it all again, but then it all hit her at once. What the fuck does any of this mean? Why the hell can nobody see that she's miserable? The ones who caused it refused to truly see her. She tried to ease the pain by distracting herself. She started drawing and writing, but all she wanted to do was yell — yell until it hurt, yell until she couldn't anymore, yell until she felt numb again, yell until the world around her was silenced and she could be heard again. Yet, she held back. She was afraid that if she let pain out, it would be absorbed by everyone around her. But even if she allowed that, the guilt would eat her alive. She didn’t want to hurt everybody else around her. She just swallowed the pain and got through every day; some better than others, but some just so badly that she was afraid to wake up everyday to discover what kind of day it would be.

This day was particularly bad. It was a Tuesday. She laid there, cold and stiff, like the morning itself. 6:30 A.M. No. Wait. 7:10 A.M. No. Wait. 8:10. She didn't get up. She couldn't. She couldn't mentally or physically bring herself to confront what her life had turned into. She was locked inside a prison, a prison of her own making and doomed to repeat this eternal cycle. She alternated between crying and sleeping. The door opened and suddenly she was no good again. She was yelled at. She was told she'd never be good enough. Nobody could see it. Nobody could see the pain hiding behind her eyes. Even her closest friends couldn't hear it through her voice. And nobody cared. Nobody cared about how deeply she hurt. Nobody cared that when somebody out her down, a little piece of her broke off inside and sank into the vast ocean that was her brain. It became cemented into her mind and she'd never forgotten it.

She never forgot how he father called her a "hootchie mama" for wanting to feel pretty for eighth-grade graduation. She never forgot how he called the police and how they put her in handcuffs, sitting in a hospital bed hearing the screams of people down the hall. She never forgot what it felt like to be hungry. She never forgot how he'd kick her out of the house and tell her, "If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back." She never forgot the fear of walking down the street and constantly looking over her shoulder to see if somebody was following her. She never forgot how she had to call her friend when a car pulled over on the mountainside and the men proceeded to yell and whistle at her. She never forgot being on the street and having nowhere to go. You never forget being that vulnerable.

That's not something you can expect her to forget. That's not something you can expect her to get over. That type of thing sticks with you. It doesn't leave you. It's always there to make her second guess herself.

depression
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