Post by KrazyRandomness on Jul 8, 2009 10:26:02 GMT -5
I'm sorry, I just...had to write something...
The gold light that blast through my window is nothing. I keep my eys shut, not listening to the past thoughts that flow into my head. The fan is on high; I feel the cold air hit me, even under the thick blanket.
I finally sigh and get up, sitting on my bed as my bluish gray eyes stare off at my window. I blink once before standing up and slowly putting my cloths on for the day.
The depression that hit me yesterday comes back as I sip my water. I've been drinking a lot of water lately; Maybe I'm an aquaholic.
Still, the depression hurts. I'm used to the stabbing pain in my heart, but I can't help, but let a few tears fall. The tears fall into my water, no longer a tear, but water.
I look at my arm and growl at the scars that stay there. The red is clearly seen on my pale skin.
I felt another stab at my heart and squeeze the water bottle. I'm not about to sob, even if it is my own home.
Crying is a sign of weakness. I hate crying, no matter where I am. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
I push the water away, no longer in the mood for the clear liquid. I start playing with golden brown hair, trying to pass the time somehow.
To tell the truth, I don't like myself at all. My skin is pale, my hair is straight, yet curly, and my eyes are too small. I hate it.
I hate pictures more. I don't understand how someone can say I'm cute while looking at me. I never believe them.
I've been depressed for a long time. Maybe not all the time, but, at least three times that year, I'll get depressed. It how I was raised, it can't be helped.
My parents are good people. They love me and didn't do anything to make me depressed. It was everyone else. The children at school and their parents. Years ago.
I never knew why and I guess it doesn't matter. Teachers, oddly, picked on me, seeming as if they encouraged it. Very few children ever helped one another or me. I guess it was some kind of law.
I remember one thing that still hurts. I stood up for this girl, in...fifth grade, I think. I stood up for her when the teacher blamed her and me for writing on the walls. I knew we didn't do it. The girl had a pencil, but it wasn't sharpen. There was nothing the teacher could proof that me or her did it, the reason was because some child told a lie. I took the whole blame. Got in-school suspension and everything while she walked out free.
I figured that meant she help me. I was wrong. I was the blame for something again that year. She was with me when I was blamed. I thought she help, but she just agreed with the teacher...
I was shocked. I helped her and she goes on with her life. That's how it worked...
I sigh as I pick up the bottle, throwing it away.
I look out the kitchen window before I sigh and walk back to my room, getting ready to take a nap...
I'm sorry. I was just...so depressed and had to write something...
The gold light that blast through my window is nothing. I keep my eys shut, not listening to the past thoughts that flow into my head. The fan is on high; I feel the cold air hit me, even under the thick blanket.
I finally sigh and get up, sitting on my bed as my bluish gray eyes stare off at my window. I blink once before standing up and slowly putting my cloths on for the day.
The depression that hit me yesterday comes back as I sip my water. I've been drinking a lot of water lately; Maybe I'm an aquaholic.
Still, the depression hurts. I'm used to the stabbing pain in my heart, but I can't help, but let a few tears fall. The tears fall into my water, no longer a tear, but water.
I look at my arm and growl at the scars that stay there. The red is clearly seen on my pale skin.
I felt another stab at my heart and squeeze the water bottle. I'm not about to sob, even if it is my own home.
Crying is a sign of weakness. I hate crying, no matter where I am. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
I push the water away, no longer in the mood for the clear liquid. I start playing with golden brown hair, trying to pass the time somehow.
To tell the truth, I don't like myself at all. My skin is pale, my hair is straight, yet curly, and my eyes are too small. I hate it.
I hate pictures more. I don't understand how someone can say I'm cute while looking at me. I never believe them.
I've been depressed for a long time. Maybe not all the time, but, at least three times that year, I'll get depressed. It how I was raised, it can't be helped.
My parents are good people. They love me and didn't do anything to make me depressed. It was everyone else. The children at school and their parents. Years ago.
I never knew why and I guess it doesn't matter. Teachers, oddly, picked on me, seeming as if they encouraged it. Very few children ever helped one another or me. I guess it was some kind of law.
I remember one thing that still hurts. I stood up for this girl, in...fifth grade, I think. I stood up for her when the teacher blamed her and me for writing on the walls. I knew we didn't do it. The girl had a pencil, but it wasn't sharpen. There was nothing the teacher could proof that me or her did it, the reason was because some child told a lie. I took the whole blame. Got in-school suspension and everything while she walked out free.
I figured that meant she help me. I was wrong. I was the blame for something again that year. She was with me when I was blamed. I thought she help, but she just agreed with the teacher...
I was shocked. I helped her and she goes on with her life. That's how it worked...
I sigh as I pick up the bottle, throwing it away.
I look out the kitchen window before I sigh and walk back to my room, getting ready to take a nap...
I'm sorry. I was just...so depressed and had to write something...
