Why

It's hard to accept who you are after everything you have been through. Maybe writing a poem about your life would help you reflect on how strong you are. Maybe it will help you cope with how you feel on the inside.

It's gloomy outside; I don't know why I'm still awake.

"Why?" It's a question I ask myself a lot, probably too frequently.

I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to find my purpose.


Growing up being told you're worthless, that you don't have a place to be; 

I always thought they were right.


At a young age, the only thing that really mattered was having friends.

Friends, something I have always lacked.

Something I have always wanted, but couldn't understand why I didn't have any.

Well, I thought I had friends; it wasn't until recently that I realized I never did.


Seventh and eighth grade was where I really started thinking about who I wanted to be.

It was also the time where I wanted it the most.


It.

Death; not the way I think about it now, but actually not being able to live anymore.

I would always ask myself "why?" at this point in my life.

Why do they do this to me?

Why do I deal with this?

WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?


I don't know if I actually wanted to die, or if I wanted to run away.

To be able to start fresh with people that didn't know anyone from my past.


I don't know how it started in the first place; the bullying, that is.

I was always nice to everyone; it didn't matter what they looked like or who they were.

No matter what happened, no matter what I did, or didn't do, no one liked me.

To this day, I still don't know why.


Now I'm in college, and I finally know what it's like to have friends. 

It took 18 years, but I finally have people in my life that want to spend time with me, to actually be my friend.


I look back, now, and think "was it worth it?"

It?

The pain, the tears, the blood, the scars, the memories, was it worth it?

I hope one day in the future it will be, but, right now, the answer is kinda.


It was kinda worth it.

Finally having the feeling, the company, the support of friends was worth it.

Even with that, I don't think the rest was.


Why would it be?!

The scars on my wrist, my thighs, my memories, my mind;

I have to live with it for the rest of my life.


I guess it's what makes me, me.

The pain, the depression, the anxiety, the scars, it's who I am.

I don't know if I like that, but it's what I've got;

It's why I live with it.

Read next: Art Isn't Real
Kaitlyn Wolf
Kaitlyn Wolf

Hey readers! I hope you like what I write. I feel as if a lot of what I will write will be about depression and anxiety and mental disorders, so there may be lots of trigger warnings. I have so much to say, so I hope you all enjoy it. 

Now Reading
Why
Read Next
Art Isn't Real