Beth had never been completely normal. But ever since she was little her life has been going in a downward spiral. From the first time she can remember being bullied, to her recent struggles with depression and loneliness. These are personal excerpts that she wrote. All about love, hate, depression, suicide, friendship, death, and the pure sh**hole that called life.

It just hit me that ever since the day of my conception I was set up to fail. There was never a chance that I would be normal and cool and popular. I was the product of the nerd, and the wise guy, who also happened to be a nerd. They got the product of themselves, the sarcastic nerd. Didn't my parents realize that I was different when my favorite song in first grade was "I'm Bloom" by Nirvana. While other girls read their books about princesses and fairies, I was reading books the teacher had specially brought in for me. I tried dumbing myself down with those magical books all the other little girls loved, but after reading all of them in the span it took my classmates to read one, I got frustrated. The teacher brought me books from the god forsaken 5th grade classrooms. Books about foster children, abuse, and books with words that I would get punished for saying. I had immersed myself into stories long and short, each getting better than the last. The reading may have been my downfall. But it gave me hope that things would get better.

I learned to play with emotions. Like how the authors do to the reader. I taught myself how to lie and which things make people think a certain way. By the time middle school came around, I was a master. I could make teachers and students like do whatever I said. In seventh grade I would give in my terrible writing to an electives teacher, always about my father's sickness. She overall felt bad, because it was a girl of not even twelve, and I had "struggle". She also had went through the same "struggles". So I got 107 in that class for the year. I had long gotten over the fact that my father was not the same as the other kids', he didn't have to mobility of all the other middle aged men named Steven, Kevin, or David. But no one else needed to know that I wasn't hurting because of that. It gave me a life or leisure, and allowed me to find myself.

If I could go back in time I would tell myself to try harder to be cool. They say it gets better for us freaks, but it don't believe it. It has only gotten worse as I've gotten older. The kids have gotten meaner, and they learned more tactics for torture. They can hurt me with their words, their actions, their sneers. And I say I won't take it, but that's a lie. I'm too afraid to stand up for myself, and I  am too weak to not care. Cause I just let it go, let it happened. Like it happened many times before. And the ripping parchment that is my hands is getting torn apart by words and actions, that it don't know how much longer I will be able to right without breaking. And when my tormentors rip my fingers, I just put them back, leaving a scar with jagged edges, and a close resemblance to any hateful things that they had said. The people who give us scars are the ones who stay forever. Scars don't disappear, and neither do the memories. So it makes me feel good to know that the people I will remember will be several girls named Ashley and Amber who liked to pick on people who's hair wasn't as shiny as theirs.

You don't get it though. If I shot myself in the head then no one would give a flying f***.  I have one friend and school, but he doesn't really like me. And everyone else either thinks I'm weird or I don't like them. I've tried being friends with all of them, but I hate them all. I hate the way they make me feel, and I hate the way they make me act. And like everyone who I love is getting frustrated with me. I know you're finding me to be clingy and annoying lately, we'll always but that's against the point. I've always been the one who's been the more intense person in the friendship. And it makes me sad that I'm losing you guys, but it makes me more upset that you don't have the heart to tell me. I get it though. I'm clingy, annoying, obsessive, delirious, weird, moody, depressive, and just an overall mess. I want to thank you for being really nice for all this time, and I want to say I'm sorry for forcing my friendship upon you. It's probably my fault that I drown myself in sorrow, and veil it with good deeds.

I'm a terrible person though. I enjoy making myself upset, letting tears fall down my face. While some may say it's just small occurrences of teenage angst and anxiety, I would beg to differ. These meltdowns happen around five times a week, and they are spoken about to no one. What kind of sick maniac makes the self upset. I don't even get why it happens. I'm a happy person, I find joy in practically everything. But it doesn't stop me from finding enjoyment from pushing myself almost to the point of no return. I don't know when the switch from the girl with so many feelings to the emotionless monster happens. When my father told me my grandmother had died I just shrugged and said okay. This got screams from my bawling mother and sister. It wasn't. That I prepared myself for her death, I just thought that crying over something that can't be changed was dumb. Then I remembered all those times I wished the elderly woman dead. Instead of realizing how bad of a person I was to think of stuff like that, I laughed and thought I might have been psychic. I wished for my grandfather to die, to make the score even for both my parents. Also my grandfather might have said something to a young me because everything at that age would upset me. When he died I swore it had a superpower. I started wishing all who I didn't like at any point dead. When they didn't die I was sad. Yet I realized it was for the better. Even though I was very young when this happened, people don't change. I'm still the same horrible person. And the truly sad part is that as much as I say I do, I don't want to change.

Today was one of my bad days. I'm starting to get bad again, and it's getting me worried. But I feel so good and bad at the same time, and it's amazing. Today may reign as the true beginning of my relapse. Yesterday night I got bad, but yesterday night was this morning. I cried at midnight. I cried during class, but no one saw, I cried in the shower, I cried a little bit after that, and I'm crying now. I love crying, but I don't know how much crying is bad for me. I thought the depression had left me. I was left to only cry happy tears. But I was wrong. Maybe the reason why I didn't cry in the summer was because I was happy. But the friends and people I loved then are gone now. Now I am alone.

And at this point I'm sobbing, but silently sobbing because no one can find out. I just want to cry for a while longer because I hate myself. I hate that I can't remember the name of the book, yet it doesn't matter because the same thing happens in every one of those books. The end of the story is at a down point- where the protagonist realizes something and looks up for the future. I cry during and after those books. It's funny that I cry because I know what is going to happen the whole time. Next week I'll be forgetting all the lessons that the book taught me, which is a shame because the lessons are very beautiful. And forgetting those lessons goes against everything the book told me to do. I've read 100 books that have taught me the same lessons, yet I haven't learned it yet. And it's pathetic. And that book is pathetic. And I'm pathetic. And everything is stinking pathetic in this world.

I was just thinking about how we're not really friends anymore, and that sucks. I get that I am annoying, crazy, obsessive, and don't get signal well and I get it if you don't want to be friends anymore. I know I kinda f*ed everything up, and I regret that now. I just miss talking to you and being your friend. You're one of the greatest people I've ever met. You were my friend in times of darkness. Even though you've never seen me bad, you helped me. You will never know I'm writing this, and that's sad, and pretty amazing, and gives me some kind of sick hope for the future.