Do You Want To Know The Worst Part Of My Day?

Do you want to know the worst part of my day? It’s waking up. Because I am faced with reality. I am reminded of the long sleeves I must wear to cover up the scars on my wrist. I am reminded of the baggy, light clothes I wear to cover up my malnourished body that is tainted with bruises. I walk the halls and try to forget about them. To forget that they’re there, but I can’t. I can’t pretend anymore.
What is violence to me? Violence is a reality. It’s my reality. My reality, though, comes in many different forms and capacities, and I don’t mind sharing my story anymore. There’s my self-violence. There’s the school violence I see in the halls almost every day. There’s the verbal violence, I honestly get worried if I don’t face any of that is
I put on light, baggy clothing. Honestly, I could probably wear less baggy clothes, but the material must be light. Otherwise, my multitude of bruises hurt. I look in the mirror and hate what I see, maybe making a few more cuts before grabbing a bagel—if I actually eat—and heading out the door.
When I arrive, no one notices I’m there. I look around at all the groups of friends, laughing and joking with each other, and I take me seat at the bottom of the bleachers, alone. There’s nothing eventful the rest of the day, until I get home, that it.
When I return home, I am welcomed with an empty house. My parents don’t get home until late. Some nights are better than others, meaning that some nights they don’t really notice me. And then other nights, they’re drunk. Here’s something you need to know: Drunk parents equals more bruises. I can’t do anything but stand there and take their beatings; both verbal and physical. The, the next morning when they have hangovers, I get to do it all again. This is the cycle of my
In my alone time, which I try to make often, I’ve contemplated the answer to my curiosity. Sometimes, I think that the bully who shoved me into the lockers is insecure. I think that he feels awful about himself, so he takes it out on me. To make himself feel better inside. I believe that my cyberbullies, posting their comments on my photos, have cyberbullies of their own. That the only escape they can find if through their words, stabbing at me. My parents, I wonder about them often, too. One day, I concluded that maybe they had parents who raised them this way. Parents who taught them that it was okay to raise a child this way. Or, rather, that their parents treated them this way, so they don’t know any better. Maybe they never got over a pain from their past, so they take it out on