In middle school, people called me fat and accused me of being “emo.”
So I picked up anorexia and started cutting.

People called me anorexic and blamed it on an imaginary drug problem I apparently had.
So I started eating, but threw up everything I ate because I was still convinced I was fat. Then I decided pills didn’t sound like a bad idea. I picked up the habit in 7th grade, and have been struggling with addiction since last March. I’m a Sophmore in Highschool that is supposed to be a Junior.

People spread rumors that I smoked cigarettes because I was always shaky.
So I picked up an addiction to cigarettes and blamed my anxiety for it.

I was raped by my first boyfriend because I was too drugged up to even realize how scary he was and how badly he was treating me; I let him pull me in instead of running away from him the second he laid eyes on me.
I told a close friend about the incident, she claimed I was lying, told everyone we knew, left me for a whole new set of friends, for years I compressed the secret, and have damn near drove myself insane with the manic depressive, post dramatic stress symptoms of my anxiety and escalating depression.

People called me a whore.
So I got pregnant at fifteen, and became a mother and provider for my son at my current age, sixteen.

People spread rumors of me trying to kill my son while I was pregnant with him, talked shit behind my back, screamed hateful things at me in public, and over the internet.
So for once, I just got really pissed. I got so pissed that it made me realize how much I shouldn’t care.
So I stopped caring. About everything. Actually, more like everything and everyone who hurts.

People told me to stay with the father of my son.
He’s a genuine asshole, those people just wanted to see me drown, so I left him, moved on, and said “fuck you” to anyone who had a problem with my decision.

People told me to give my son up for adoption,
but I love him, so I told everyone who decided they knew better than I do about something they’ve never even experienced to “fuck off.”

I wake up every morning to myself in my bathroom mirror, putting makeup over a face that’s been beaten, ignored, lied to, and resented. I don’t care. Sometime between the conception of my son and the birth of my son, I decided i’m a woman. I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. I’ve taught myself to laugh in everyones faces again, because they don’t matter. Ten years from now, I won’t know them, they won’t know me. All i’ll know is me, my son, a kitten, apartment walls, and happiness. I’ve decided I should probably start living for myself again.

Fuck ‘em, why should I give a fuck?