time. And everytime, it just got worse, and worse, until I was
dragging D’s and F’s, desperately trying to pick them up but
crumbling down each time. I soon forgot Alex, and fell into a
depression of sorts. It was like I was falling down the same
bottomless pit she had used to hide all of her mistakes.
I started to become more interactive, I cared more about
how I looked, and I put more thought into making friends. I had
lost the headband a while ago and started wearing things I saw
on TV, white T-shirts, leggings, skinny jeans, crop tops, and
disregarded my baggy jeans, long sleeves, and capris. I had
fashion phases: the Scarf Phase, the Boots Phase, the Bejeweled
Phase. The Jacket Phase. I still have nightmares about that one.
I was trying to find myself, just like all the girly magazines
and TV shows and websites said. I wanted to be the best me I
could be, but I was really becoming the oblivious weirdo
everyone tries to ignore.
But a few weeks ago, I started to trip. I lost connection to my
productive self, and I started spending my days laying on my
bed, listening to music, wandering around on Instagram and
Youtube.
My parents could see my lack of motivation and tried to
help, but in all the wrong ways. They took my phone, they
stopped letting me spend time outside of the house, they tried
too hard but also not enough. I knew I should have asked them
for help, but I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me. I know
it’s a little cliché, and it sounds like a regular negative thing that
happens that I would normally try not to do.
But it was real. I couldn’t explain it, and I couldn’t
understand why I couldn’t turn to them. I blamed their
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