Sixteen years I've lived this life.
Sixteen years, and I still hate the girl in the mirror.
Adopted when no one else wanted me, when fear was all I knew.
My family says I was perfect, but if that was true why did I have to go?
Who I am, I do not know. My dad is gone and my mom won't tell.
My eleventh year and I was in the hospital.
It started it all, the crumbling of my perfect demeanor.
I feel that my case is impossible. There is no cure for someone like me.
No. Sometimes I feel I'd be better off dead.
These words pound through my head. They tell me I don't deserve what I have.
Sixteen years, and I'm still afraid of love.
A simple hug can send me back to a time where I did not know what a human was.
Bipolar depression. That's what I am.
The way I treat my family, caused by that. Of course, that exscuse is just a sham.
I don't know how to love, not the way they do.
I feel that I should, that I could if I treied.
But who would I be without all this anger?
Today, things have calmed some. Mhome is filled with laughter.
But for how long? I act like I am so strong.
In reality, I'm weak and about to break.