My name is Sophia and I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’ve never been a very good writer, but I feel like this is the only way I can lay it all out there. I’ve tried talking to the people in my life, but I can never seem to say exactly what I’m feeling. I don’t want to tell them that I’ve lost all hope. I’m done. Growing up I was the middle child of my family. I had an older sister and a younger brother. Of coarse when you’re younger you learn that siblings are mean. They fight both physically and emotionally through their words. My siblings were both blessed with fast metabolisms and were athletically inclined. I on the other hand had always been bigger than them and they used that against me. I guess they really liked the alliteration of Fat Phia, because that particular nickname stuck longer than others. The first time that I ever physically hurt myself was in the sixth grade. I was twelve. Some fight or something went down between me and my sister, although I don’t remember the exact events, what I do remember is the feeling of wanting to hurt myself. Wanting to have some control over the pain that I felt, rather than letting others hurt me. And so I looked to a small pocketknife that my brother had recently been given. Then I dragged it across my skin. Multiple times. Since then both my left arm as well as both my thighs have been tarnished with too many scars to count. Scars on top of scars. Flash forward about 7 years and here we are. 19 and still hating myself. Slowly it’s gotten worse through the years. Although the self harm sessions have gotten more and more spaced out, to the point where I almost never do it unless I really break, the sadness and hopelessness feels awful. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere I go. I don’t have the motivation to go to work, to go out with friends. I dropped out of my college classes. Never would I have thought something as simple as showering would be so difficult to bring myself to do. It’s awful. I don’t want to be here anymore and yet I’m scared of dying. Lately though that fear of death gets less and less and I’m terrified. I feel so alone. And I know I’m not the only one to ever feel like this, I’m not stupid and naive. Logically I know there are people who care for me and that almost makes it worse. Because now I feel guilty. Guilty for hating myself, which is somehow so much worse than just being able to hate myself in peace. Now I have people questioning why I feel this way. I DON’T KNOW! I don’t want to feel this way, and I don’t think they understand that it’s not just a switch I can flip. I can’t just be like “BAM! Oh look now I’m happy and I love myself”... So here I am, no idea what the f*ck I’m doing with my life and hating every second of it.

My name is Sophia and I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’ve never been a very good writer, but I feel like this is the only way I can lay it all out there. I’ve tried talking to the people in my life, but I can never seem to say exactly what I’m feeling. I don’t want to tell them that I’ve lost all hope. I’m done. Growing up I was the middle child of my family. I had an older sister and a younger brother. Of coarse when you’re younger you learn that siblings are mean. They fight both physically and emotionally through their words. My siblings were both blessed with fast metabolisms and were athletically inclined. I on the other hand had always been bigger than them and they used that against me. I guess they really liked the alliteration of Fat Phia, because that particular nickname stuck longer than others.The first time that I ever physically hurt myself was in the sixth grade. I was twelve. Some fight or something went down between me and my sister, although I don’t remember the exact events, what I do remember is the feeling of wanting to hurt myself. Wanting to have some control over the pain that I felt, rather than letting others hurt me. And so I looked to a small pocketknife that my brother had recently been given. Then I dragged it across my skin. Multiple times. Since then both my left arm as well as both my thighs have been tarnished with too many scars to count. Scars on top of scars.Flash forward about 7 years and here we are. 19 and still hating myself. Slowly it’s gotten worse through the years. Although the self harm  sessions have gotten more and more spaced out, to the point where I almost never do it unless I really break, the sadness and hopelessness feels awful. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere I go. I don’t have the motivation to go to work, to go out with friends. I dropped out of my college classes. Never would I have thought something as simple as showering would be so difficult to bring myself to do. It’s awful. I don’t want to be here anymore and yet I’m scared of dying. Lately though that fear of death gets less and less and I’m terrified. I feel so alone. And I know I’m not the only one to ever feel like this, I’m not stupid and naive. Logically I know there are people who care for me and that almost makes it worse. Because now I feel guilty. Guilty for hating myself, which is somehow so much worse than just being able to hate myself in peace. Now I have people questioning why I feel this way. I DON’T KNOW! I don’t want to feel this way, and I don’t think they understand that it’s not just a switch I can flip. I can’t just be like “BAM! Oh look now I’m happy and I love myself”... So here I am, no idea what the f*ck I’m doing with my life and hating every second of it. 