And, this is my story.

There is a void within me, and I have known this for a long time.

My name is Mickayla, and I am 19-years-old. Do not think too much into my age; typically the first response upon telling someone is that I am too young to really know what I am talking about. I digress, wholeheartedly.

My name is Mickayla, and I was abused as a child. My stepmother would beat me, she would degrade me, saying the most horrible things in the world. My dad always believed my stepmother; he told me that I was either making it up or that I deserved it. At a very young age, I stopped trusting my dad with important things. It was not until recently that we have gotten to a close level.

My name is Mickayla, and I am overweight. I have been overweight since I was very young; most attributed it to the separation of my parents when I was three. I would sneak into the cabinets and stuff myself with anything I could see. To this day, I hate my body. I hate what unjustice I have done to it. I hate who I am and what I have become.

My name is Mickayla, and my self worth is determined solely by who loves me. I was in a relationship for five years, but in that span of time, I had two other unofficial relationships. John was my first relationship; he was my first love, my first kiss, my first sexual partner. Grey was the second; he sung me songs and told me how beautiful I was. Damien was the third, and while I was done entirely wrong, I was in love -- he put poets to shame with his beauty. In that span of time, I have had various other people whom I had interest in. I find myself crushing on person to person in hopes that one of them will click, one of them will see all of my crazy, and my firey red hair, and adore me as I am. I am broken, but goddamnit, someone can put together the pieces and find beauty.

My name is Mickayla, and I am still not over my mothers death. It has been almost two entire years since she passed away; it is not as though her death was even unexpected. She had been sick for a really long time. I had good closure with her, but I still can not get over it. I feel a lot of things about this. I feel sad that she isnt here with me anymore. I feel happy that she is not feeling pain anymore. I feel guilt, because despite the fact that none of her illnesses were my fault, I feel like I could have done something. I feel like there was some way to help, something I could have done.

My name is Mickayla, and I have depression. Well, to be fair, its probably along the lines of Dysthymia. Regardless, it is something I have endured since I have been 14 years old. It has been almost 6 years, and I somehow have made it through all of this time despite really having no reason to. I self harmed for two of those years, and have been clean for almost five years. While that is a triumph in itself, it brings me to my next point.

My name is Mickayla, and I use working as a coping method. Between my two jobs, I work close to 65 hours a week. That is not including full-time school. It is getting to the point that I could not tell you what day it is; I can only tell you the intervals in which I work. It is getting to the point where I am working so much that I do not really remember working; it is as if I am repressing everything. I cant tell you what Ive eaten. I cant tell you who I am.

My name is Mickayla, and I have been planning to take my life since Ive been 16. This is not one of those situations where its like, Woah! Go to suicide.org. No. Its just the little things, like driving your car without the music turned up loud enough, so you just sit with your thoughts. Its festering, its, Man, I should drive off this bridge. Its I really hope someone shoots me, or, I hope I dont wake up in the morning. Sometimes its better than others, but its been a niggling feeling in the back of my head for a long time now. Its having nothing to live for.

@OrunLeon @ZaraSmiles @Anomalia @Alot @DHawks