Useless

Cunt. That word will forever haunt my thoughts. The first time someone called me this was the first time I had heard this word; what does it mean? Why would someone call me that? Is it good or bad, or worse? I pushed it to the back of my mind and told myself not to think about it. It is just a word. Words can’t hurt me. Unbeknownst to me, all those bad words were slowly killing me. I was seventeen, a junior in high school, supposedly the time in my life where I was supposed to be having the most fun. I had no responsibilities. The only thing I was worried about was getting to school on time. I wish it had been that easy. When I was fourteen someone told me to kill myself. They told me I wasn’t worth it. They told me the world would be better without me. They told me I was USELESS. Worst of all, they didn’t even have to courage to tell me to my face. They told me through a screen. As the tears began to stream down my face, I thought about my life. It was short, only fourteen years. I had so much to live for, so many things I wanted to accomplish. I hadn’t even made it to high school yet. There was no way that I could be useless. I had done nothing to deserve this. This was the first time I can remember thinking to myself, “I am fine.” “Whoever sent this doesn’t know me.” “I am better than this.” “This is not going to change who I am.” But I wasn’t fine, I wasn’t better than that, and it did change who I was. It changed me in ways that I wish I had never changed. Ways that made it almost impossible to live. After it happened I pushed it to the back of my mind. I tried every way I could think of to try and forget. Than one day, it was gone. I wasn’t thinking about, and I didn’t care to. The next few years were what I thought was normal. I gained a lot of weight, lost a lot of weight. Had a lot of friends, lost a lot of friends. Was happy, and was sad. But I never again thought of that night. To me that night was useless. CUNT. Cunt. There it was again. That word I kept hearing. I still didn’t know what it really meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. I thought by being “strong” and not saying anything to them, I was being the bigger person. It wasn’t going to affect me if I didn’t acknowledge it. Their words can't hurt if I keep pretending they don’t. No matter what I did the words they kept saying kept singing in my head like a bad song. “Bitch.” “Cunt.” “Whore.” “Useless.” All things I knew I wasn’t. All things I was starting to believe I was. I was captain of my swim team, an “A” student, and editor of the school yearbook. I had so much going for me, yet all I wanted to do was lay in bed. I just went through the motions of things I thought I was supposed to be doing. I went to school, did my homework, and went to practice. But there was one thing I never ever wanted to do. I never wanted to eat. I didn’t even know I was doing it to myself. I didn’t know what it was doing to me. It was a horrible roller coaster I was stuck on. Going up the hill and over the loops over and over and over again; so dizzy and nauseous I couldn’t even scream out for help. I would make excuses as to why I didn’t have to eat. At home: “MOM! I’m going to be late for school I don’t have time to eat breakfast.” At school: “I had a really big breakfast and I have some homework to finish.” At dinner: “I had a snack before you guys got home from work.” After practice: “I ate a granola bar on the bus on the way home.” The excuses never stopped. I would go days without eating, than all of a sudden, the roller coaster would stop. Everything would become clear, and I would see and understand what horrible things I was doing. I would start eating again and things would go back to normal. But as quickly as it stopped, it would start again. I would get back on the roller coaster. Soon enough I became numb to the dizziness and nausea. It all became so normal, such a routine. The excuses flowed out of me without even thinking. Food didn’t taste good, and the people around me might as well have been strangers in a crowd. I didn’t care about anything or anyone. Not even the most important person. Myself. Friends became worried. Most didn’t stick around long enough to ask what was wrong, and the ones that did, I didn’t tell. Teachers knew something was wrong, but to them I am just another face in the crowd who will be gone as quickly as I arrived. HOW CAN I DO IT? I would cry on the way home from practice. I would put my headphones in, put my hood up, and bury myself in my sleeves and cry. Cry tears of disappointment. Tears of sorrow. And tears of longing. The only thing I wanted was to be free from everything. I wanted to be free from the pain, free from this world that seemed to be using me as a chew toy. I thought about this more than I would care to admit. It was always on my mind. I thought about my school. What would they think if I was gone? Would life go on as normal? Would anyone care that I wasn’t there anymore? I thought about my friends. What few friends I did have. How would they react? Would they be shocked or mad? Or would they have known this was coming, and know that I was miserable here and wherever I was, I had to be happier. Lastly, I thought about my family. What were my last words to them going to be? I wanted them to know it wasn’t their fault; they had always loved me and treated me so well. I wanted them to know that no matter what they had done nothing could have saved me. It was my time, everyone has a time to go, and this was mine. I thought about their reactions, their thoughts, and their immediate actions. How would they go on without me? I wanted them to be happy, but I knew that they wouldn’t be happy if I wasn’t here. I couldn’t do it. Every part of my brain was telling me to end it. Get it over with. You know it’s for the best. But my muscles wouldn’t follow through. Almost as if something was controlling them, telling them to stop. Telling them that no matter what, I was wrong. I didn’t know my path. I didn’t know that ultimately this was going to make me stronger. This was going to help heal me. STRONGER? I knew that being miserable was better than being dead. Suffering through my last year of high school would be worth it. I would go off to college and everything would change. There would be new people, and more of them. I wouldn’t be in a fish bowl anymore. It was a completely fresh start. Things were wonderful, I had friends, I was doing something I loved, and finally I was happy. Or I thought I was happy.