Starting with Kindergarten, already feeling like a outsider because everyone else had their mom's and dads with them, I never knew who my real dad was, still don't. I had always heard stories about how much of a failure my real dad is. Why didn't he want to even be around me? I felt like an outsider because I walked into the classroom, and everyone stopped and stared at me, like I was some type of alien or something. My mom told talked to the teacher. She seemed to be such a sweet older lady, and that she was. She was the one that took me into her arms and told me everything would be just fine. Who would've known that the lady I had come to known, would pass away after Grade school. I would always go into the corners, by myself and would stay there, and wouldn't even have one person come and check on me, besides the teacher. Depression hit me, even though it was such a young age and I had no idea what my feelings and emotions were. It felt like the right way to be, always being alone took a huge part in developing mental problems at a young age. All I ever wanted to do was go to the corner and cry because it seemed like no one ever wanted to even be bothered with talking to me or even asking if I wanted to play with them. I always sat on the swing set at recess and just sat there the entire time, all by myself, watching everyone else with all of their friends enjoying themselves. Most people would think I am too old now to even remember what happened back then, but whenever it comes to something like this, you don't just forget. You can always forgive what those people did to you, but you'll never forget. My mom always told me to enjoy my life and to live it the way I felt comfortable with living it. She always taught me to love one another and to cherish the ones that are in your life. She also told me not to expect good from every single person I meet, because it may not even exist even the slightest in some people. Why didn't I ever listen to her whenever she told me that, is beyond me.

First grade. All I can say is I was lucky enough to even get through it. Sitting in art class at a table all by myself with the rudest teacher I had come to known thus far. She would always tell me how much my artwork sucked, and that I would grow up to be nothing but a f*** up and be one of those people on the sides of the road begging for money. She would always yell at me for things that I wouldn't even be doing. Whenever someone else in the class would do something, even if it was uglier than my artwork, she would hang it up in the classroom and would praise them, and leave me speechless and wouldn't even pay attention to my feelings and emotions. She would look at me directly and would scold me for not being as talented as everyone else in the class. Everyone else in the class would be talking, and she would pick me out of everyone else and told me to shut up and stop disrupting her class. If I didn't understand something, she wouldn't even take the time to explain it to me. She would hand me a pencil and tell me to figure it out myself. She would literally stand there and laugh at me if I messed up on something and would always give a bad report to the principal, telling the principal that I disrespected her and that I was always back talking her every time she tried to be nice to me. Was this woman for real? Very seldom would she take anything that I said, seriously. She always took it as a joke, and wouldn't even attempt to try and take me serious. The actual teacher I had, was even worse. She grabbed me by my arm and would always spit in my face. She would always stand in the classroom and scold us for being "bad children." What did she expect from a whole bunch of 6-7 year old children? She would tell us how much she hated children and how much she wished all of us weren't even in her class.

Second grade. Where to begin. Well, the teacher started off being nice and started off being someone that I could talk to about being bullied in the classroom. She would take care of it, then I overheard her in the hallway talking to the principal and they would be laughing for some odd reason. She showed a little less hatred towards the students. But not much. the students in my class would always throw things at me and would never let me join them in any games that they were playing in the classroom or even at recess. I always got pushed off of the swings to give it up to the next person because I couldn't defend myself to the slightest. I always came home with bruises that I had to make excuses as to what happened to me. My mom believed me and I went to bed and prepared for another day of pure hell. Students in the class would always tell me I was weird and that I walked and talked like a girl. They told me I didn't deserve to be in their "group of friends." Being me, I just shrugged it off and continued on with my horrible days. I remember it like it was yesterday. A whole bunch of "friends" were sitting on the Meri-Go Round and would always be talking about everyone else in the class. I was pushed off of the Meri-Go Round and into the wood chips every single day, Why was they treating me like this was the only question that kept going through my head. I wanted to play Kickball with the class and I would always get kicked in my face or get pushed to the back of the line and onto the ground. Not once did I ever get to kick the ball. Whenever I was throwing the ball for the other team to kick, they would purposely kick it directly at me and it would hit me in my face.

Third grade. It started off being okay Then it started going down hill. The teacher had a weird, New York accent. I respected her accent, she just slurred on a lot of words and would always scream at us and give us a lecture every time we questioned something she had asked. It was like she was some different type of teacher, that honestly could care less if we learned or not. She never asked us if we understood what she was teaching. She would sit behind her desk and text people about her students, telling them how "retarded" we are and how much she hates us. This was one of the most emotional years I had ever been through at that time.

Let's move on to my Fourth grade year. The teacher came across as being yet another teacher that didn't even care about what we said or did. She would sit behind her desk and would always be writing down things she saw us doing in the classroom. She would give us Reading tests and would have us sit next to her and pronounce words that were completely off the wall. Whenever we messed up, she would have us repeat it until she got tired and would tell us to go sit down and gave us a bad grade on the test. We played a spelling name called Sparkle, and I was always the one that messed the entire game up and everyone in the class including the teacher, would laugh at me and point at me. It embarrassed me. I never will forget the time that the teacher told me that she hated me. I will never forget the time that she laughed directly in my face and spit on me and told me that I would be nothing but a failure in the real world.

Fifth grade was the grade that had to be the worst in Elementary. By this time, My voice started changing and I was starting to figure out who I am. I would always hang out with the girls on the playground and would be picked on by the guys in the classes. I started developing hormones and got a little bit curious. I had this guy, that I always had a crush on, but never understood what I was feeling. I knew at a very young age that I was "different" that the rest of the class. I remember getting my first kiss, it was with a guy. Everyone found out about it, and turned against me. I thought these people would always be there for me. The guy that I had my first kiss with, never talked to me again and moved away. 

I remember being in Middle school. I remember walking down the hall ways and not having anyone walking next to me. I remember being in lunch and being laughed at and running back into the hall way against the walls and not even having one person, including Faculty and Staff or even my "best friend" to come see how I was. No one. No one at all. I always went and talked with the counselors and administration, but they never even seemed to care about anything that I had said to them. They would always tell me "Things will get better..." When, whenever I am dead? That's the only thing that was weighing on my mind. What would the world be like without me, would anyone truly miss me? It seemed damn near impossible for anyone to love me and to even take into consideration listening to my feelings.
Walking down the hallways was a joke. Getting pushed down the stairs, thrown into lockers and screamed at constantly for being too "slow" in the hallways, whenever all I was doing is being cautious and watching out for what was in front of me, because with my luck, you never knew what was going to happen at that very second while walking down the hallway, only to get to class. Not even socializing with anyone. It wasn't the best decision, but it seemed like the only way to do things. Every time I talked to someone about my situation, they would just sit there and completely laugh at me and never even help me or even ask any questions to see if I was okay. I wasn't okay. There was nothing okay about me. I shouldn't be going through this, just like everyone else shouldn't. Why couldn't I just live a "normal" life? Why wasn't I "normal"? Is there such a thing as living a "normal" life?

It was at this point in my life, where I just didn't even care if I was alive or not. I started getting into drugs and it really screwed my life up. Walking down the hallways being completely stoned out of my life, wasn't always the best feeling, but it got me through. Going to classes barely even paying attention, because the only thing that was on my mind is swallowing pills just to make the pain go away, or smoking my life away. That's exactly what I was doing. I remember one time I was at home, and I got into a argument with the boyfriend I had at the time. He told me to go kill myself, so that's what I planned on doing. That's all my intentions were at that time. It was the only way I could get everything to stop. All I can remember is hearing the sirens in the background, I completely blacked out. I remember waking up in the hospital, and having a IV stuck in my arm, the nurse telling me that I collapsed outside and that I was okay, but took quite a hit. They called another ambulance and transported me to the Mental Hospital, which I referred to as a big "playhouse." Everyone in there was there for a different reason than I was. Let me describe why I called it a Playhouse. We would all sit in a group at the table and would just sit there, never even saying a word, whenever it came down to talking, we would sit around and play games and wouldn't take anything serious. Was this supposed to help me, what was this accomplishing, Nothing! Nothing at all. Everyone would be bouncing around the room, running and chasing and tackling each other. Is this what a Mental Hospital is supposed to look like? I thought they told me I would be going here to cope with Depression and to learn new ways to handle stressful situations like what happened in the previous hours of the day. I felt like I had no one to talk to, because no one was like me.
       Staying up, day after day, night after night watching the clock slowly turn had to be pure torture. It was Freshman year in High School whenever this all happened. I was in a brand new environment, and didn't know anyone, at all. I was always the outsider, as I said before, but.. This was completely different, this was the definition of being alone. I was always sticking to myself, struggling at every assignment and to obtain myself from doing self harm. I always heard that it does get better, but when? My mom always told me that she would love me regardless of my decisions. How could she ever love a monster, someone that was so mind screwed it's not even describable.