I was sexually assaulted by a stranger a couple weeks before my tenth birthday and only talked to my parents once about it.
When I was twelve, I was sent to live in a different country for better education.
By the time I was sixteen, I was very lonely and struggled with depression, anxiety and an eating disorder, but my grades were perfect and I pretended to be in control of my life.
I went home for the holidays and had my suicide planned out for the day before my flight back to school.
I decided to give it all one last chance and tried talking to my parents.
I showed them my self-harm marks, which I’ve been hiding for two years, and explained what state I was in.
They told me to stop being such a victim.
My mom held my badly-scarred hand and said I was doing it for attention only, that I was fine but very dramatic.
My dad told me I was an investment and that he wouldn’t care if I killed myself if only I had returned them all the money they had spent on me.
I lived out of pure spite.
I didn’t kill my self because I thought that that would be a relief for them.
Then I met my girlfriend and she empowered me to go to therapy and gave me a sense of life.
I don’t talk to my parents more than once in a couple months, and I make my own money so that I don’t owe them anything.
I’m not even nineteen yet.
