Fuck

rachbtw

unspokengrief

GROWING UP SICK.

growing up all i ever wanted to do is make this world more beautiful

but all i was given was

medication and rape kits.

hospital visits and split open skin.

there was nothing beautiful about being sick.

13, I cried and screamed for help and you called it growing up.

i called it a deep fire burning in my chest ready to erupt because i was 13 and i wanted to die. i was 13 and i couldn’t stop crying. i was 13 and my life was anything but beautiful.

because i was now 15 and you told me I was being moody.

but i called it being me. doing anything to make me feel again. make me alive again. make me stop rotting in my bedroom refusing to go to school for the fifth time again. i was 15 and didn’t want to exist. i was 15 and you didn’t believe i was sick.

you called me dramatic.

i called it sharing a room with my twin sister till i was 17. months of crying myself to sleep. she didn’t call it anything. she pretended she didn’t hear me. she didn’t say anything.

because i was now 16 and you only noticed the weight gain.

but you didn’t notice the bruises. didn’t notice the sickness inside of me growing. didn’t notice that when people asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up that i couldn’t give an answer. because I didn’t want to grow up. because i was suppose to be dead. because the sickness started weaving it’s way through my bones and you didn’t notice. i was 16 and no one noticed. the scars. the tears. the endless fear.

because i was 17 and you told me i was ungrateful.

but how could I be grateful for a life I never asked for. for sickness to be my only constant. for a family that couldn’t love me. for the times strangers forced themselves inside of me. to be this. to be human. but so far from. i was 17 and wished I could go back to being a kid. I was 17 and sadness lived in my bones. 17 and too scared to be alone because my body was no longer my home. he came inside and left the windows and doors open.

because I am now 22 and the doctors shove medication after medication down my throat trying to fix years of neglect. because you can not call my suicide attempts apart of growing up. because when the therapist asks what my childhood was like i can’t look them in the eye when I tell them it was fine. normal. because when I am finally getting better I self destruct as fast as possible because I am no one if not sick. i am no one if I am not bleeding. not hurting. not breaking.

but I am 22 and trying to make the world a beautiful place despite my pain. despite the wounds. despite the love i never received. there is nothing beautiful about being sick but there is beauty in being alive. in the way my therapist understands my pain. in the compassion of strangers. in all the small things. in life.

— the world is beautiful even on days I can’t see it. © h.g