Thirty One

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I hate myself.

I can hear my mother crying. I know it's my fault. That is why I hate myself.

My mom took me to a doctor's office. He talked to me. He asked me questions. He asked me how I felt. He asked about my friends and my family. He asked about my social life. He asked about my grades. He asked about my sleeping and eating schedule. I lied; I improved the truth. Then he asked if I had ever had any alcohol. He asked about drugs. I said that I hadn't done anything like that. He asked to take a test-something about my bloodstream. It scared me. I knew it would come back positive. He would tell my parents. They would cry more. Because of me.

I can hear my mother crying. I know it's my fault. That is why I hate myself.

I hate myself.

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