childhood
My childhood was no better. In many ways, I'm actually lucky that my life is only as bad as it is now.
I remember the first time I didn't want to be alive anymore. I was sent home because, as usual, I couldn't handle the atmosphere. Or something of the sort. Many of my illnesses that afflicted me from the moment I was born contributed to this, so I've been told.
I was routinely sent home to my mother because of my problems, usually after running around the school, avoiding the staff until they'd kneel on my neck and bend my arm behind my back all while I cried and yelped that I "couldn't breathe". Then, after sitting in the office and listening to the pleasant and very mature grown-ups berate me and complain about my mom's "terrible parenting" (She wasn't a terrible parent, I was just a troubled kid. Maybe even a bad one at times.) they would send me away until the next incident.
Anyways, I'm wandering.
I had gotten into my mom's car. I remember looking at her and saying rather bluntly, "I don't want to be alive". I then slammed the back of my head into my seat. This will become a common occurrence. She didn't say anything at the moment, but I remember seeing her eyes filled with tears in the rearview mirror while I had my meltdown. This all left me with a distaste for schooling and a bigger distaste for myself.
It wasn't always terrible, though. In moments of weakness and misery there are always good moments.