Everyone I have ever met in my life has had someone or something to live for. I never have. My parents, they don’t love me. My grandparents, they don’t love me. My aunts and uncles, they don’t love me either. The only friend that I do have, my best friend, sometimes, I’m not even sure if she loves me. But I don’t love any of them either. I don’t love myself.


I’ve been a flesh cutter for three years. I suffer from insomnia, anxiety and chronic Dysthymia depression. I have never been seen about these problems, but after doing all the research online and comparing the symptoms, I came to these conclusions. I have been alone, very alone. Everyone looks at me as if I’m not a part of them. I’m an outcast. I am far from the world. Nobody notices me. Nobody cares.


One thing I am sure of is that, I do know what love is. I do love someone. But he doesn’t know I love him. He doesn’t notice me. He doesn’t acknowledge me. He probably doesn’t even know who I am. But he should. I’m around him at least three times a week. I associate with the number one person in his life, who he might be in love with, which breaks my heart, because he doesn’t love me.


But what can I do? The worst thing about being depressed is that, even at your highest points, you still feel like you’re at your lowest. It makes you feel like you’re below the ground, sick, and alone and scared. It’s not something you can control either. You’re just depressed every single minute of every single day. So where in my day can I make time to love?


I remember back when I was eleven and I started my period for the first time; I had some kind of sick obsession where blood had seemed to really fascinate me. Not that I enjoyed blood constantly coming out of me but the color of it and the look of it caught my attention.


When I found out I suffered from all these things and when I could no longer figure out why I was always so down and sad, I cut, to remember something that had fascinated me. And when I did it, even though it hurt, I was satisfied. I cut on my stomach with a razor blade and on my wrist. I’ve cut on my thigh with a butter knife and even attempted a real knife too.


I wasn’t at all pleased with what I’ve done, but I always ask myself, what can I do? I’m not sure if my parents know I cut. I’m not even sure they know that I suffer from insomnia and depression. They’re never around and they never talk to me. The only times they do talk to me is when they have something to complain about. My so called parents are always one, working or two, out drinking every single night. I’m surprised I haven’t called child services on them but I honestly didn’t want to deal with the whole adopted parents thing and I knew I wouldn’t have that much freedom if I did. They’d probably check for any physical scars or bruises, which would lead them to see all the scars I’ve given myself and they’d send me away to some mental hospital or something. In a way, I was kind of scared to find out what my parents would do to me if they found out I called child services on them.


My so called mother would bring home her left over dinner and leave her scraps in the fridge for me to eat. But I didn’t ever dare to touch it because who knew where that meal had been before then. When I didn’t touch it though, and I so happened to be home when my mother was, she’d come into my room and say, “What, you ungrateful child. My food wasn’t enough for you?” The fact that she said “my food” makes it pretty clear that she doesn’t want me touching it because it’s her food, but when I didn’t eat it, she’d get mad? “Wasn’t hungry,” I’d say. And all the times she wasn’t home, I would make an attempt to throw the left overs down the sink and throw the bag away just so it would look like I’d eaten something. “You’re putting my damn good money down the drain when you don’t eat that food Melissa.” She always nags, I never care.


That’s the thing about them. Everything they tell me, I try to make it go in one ear and out the other because if it doesn’t, I’ll take it to heart, into consideration and it’ll affect my entire day. I’ve cut for three years and have suffered from depression for six years. It could have partially been because of my hormonal changes or the fact that that’s when I finally started understanding, realizing and remembering everything that has occurred in my life. I live in fear, in fear of being alone, in fear of being unhappy forever. And I don’t know how much longer I can do it for.

Life has been tough. Senior year has been even tougher. Not that it’s hard or anything, but it’s stressful. It’s that one major year where almost all seniors are rushing to get college applications in, finding a job, and avoiding the senior blow out in order to graduate high school on time. Having a girlfriend doesn’t make that any easier either.


I’ve been told that I’m good looking. Not only good, but great looking. Ladies love me. But I usually shrug off their compliments because there’s only one girl in this world that I truly like. Kristen has been my girlfriend for two months, but we’ve know each other for six. I never really saw her as the girlfriend type until one day, about six months ago, she came back from a youth camp she said she had went to and I saw a whole new light in her. She claims she found Jesus; I don’t really believe in all that stuff, but if that was the case, then so be it, because everything about whom she had become, I was attracted to, immensely.


Kristen and I tend to hang out a lot. On rare days, she’ll have her friend Melissa hang out with us and boy, is she a character. What I’m trying to say is, she’s shy, very shy. And quiet. Her outward look is dark. And she always looks sad. And it’s not like I’m attracted to her either. But her appearance, it tells a story. An incredible one. And on some days when Kristen just wants to hang out with me, I’ll encourage her to invite Melissa along just so I can continue to figure her out.


Besides that, Kristen and I have been getting along fine. But I don’t love her. I like to see myself as the guy who will help everyone else first before himself. Because, if I really sit down to think about it, that is exactly what I am.


I am the guy that every girl wants. But whoop-de-do. I don’t care. I’ve got a lot more respect for girls in me then people might think I do. My parents are the only ones who see that. I couldn’t thank them enough for that.


I probably think too much for the average eighteen year old boy. I probably consider too much. I probably over think things too much. But I’ve been trying to get better at it. I can’t seem to be happy with anything I do. But at least I’m happy with the majority of the things I say. I like to give advice and when someone calls me up for some advice, I’d be by their side at the drop of a dime in order to help them out.


I’m a talkative person. But I absolutely couldn’t bring myself to have a damn decent conversation with Melissa and that’s what pissed me off the most. Her dark auburn hair that fell just below her shoulders, her piercing green eyes. . . ‘She’s just a girl, Jacob. You can do it!’ But no, I couldn’t. And I hated it.


Part of the reason why I didn’t talk to her, could have been because Kristen is her best friend and I didn’t want Kristen to think that I was trying to move in on Melissa and forget her. Even though I know I’d never do that, I just didn’t want her thinking that. Because that’s not what it was that I wanted. I wasn’t trying to get with Melissa. She didn’t seem like girlfriend material. That might sound rude, but if anyone were to look at her, they’d understand what I meant.