Pieces of Me.

Dream.

02/04/2017

Dream. That is such a big word.

As a child I thought dreams were meant give us hope, making us believe in things that weren't real and would have never been. Like being a popstar wearing a wig to cover my identity, being a mermaid or marrying a prince.

As a pre-teen i still thought dreams weren't supposed to come true. Not because I didn't want them to, but because I thought I didn't deserve them to come true. Like meeting Justin Bieber, being pretty, not being made fun of because I was fat, and even making my parents get back together.

When I was thirteen life got a little more complicated. So I started dreaming about running away, having amnesia, disappearing or even dying. I thought I deserved an easy way out. I thought I had been through enough, but I wasn't enough.
I wasn't thin, I wasn't pretty, I wasn't smart, I thought I was a big nothing. So I did it. I started cutting myself and making myself throw up. And I felt good about it, especially when someone said I was getting skinnier. I felt better, but it wasn't true happiness. It was just like a painkiller that hid the truth for a while.

I still remember when I started taking medication for, so they called, depression. And after that I just hid behind the famous lie, "I'm fine", so my family and friends didn't get hurt.
After that I started dreaming about having a perfect body to show the bully's that I wasn't fat anymore, having lots of money to show my older sisters I had succeeded in life, perfect boyfriend to show my ex I found someone better, perfect life to show myself that I was better than all of them.

The truth was I didn't wanna be me. And the truth came out in 10th grade.
When that happened I really felt like dying. Everyone in my class knew it because some douchebag had put down my sleeve.
I felt naked. There was no turning back.
After one of my teachers told my parents, they told my psichiatrist that things got worse. And I was quickly admited to the hospital. They said it wasn't safe for me to be alone.

Things got better there. I realised what I had been missing in life. I realised how I should be grateful for what I had, and that was what got me through that.

I started to dream about the real world. Although I didn't know what was happening outside of the hospital.
My classmates were saying awful things and making up rumors. They were saying that it was my fault and I deserved what was happening to me. They even made up that I started cutting myself because Zayn left One Direction.

Nobody has depression at fifteen, they said.

When I found out I ignored every single word they said, but deep down those words hurt me like hell.

After that I didn't feel well, but I didn't feel bad either.
I was just there.

Until one night. I couldn't sleep so I decided to watch a movie. The edge of seventeen. I don't know if it was the movie or I was PMS'ing. I just started crying, hard.
I remember sitting on the floor in front of my mirror and starting to talk. I needed that. I needed to talk to myself and hear myself. So I could grow up, so I could move on.

Now, as a sixteen years old teenager I believe dreams are suposed to come true.

I dream about meeting someone I will love as much as he/she loves me.

I dream about doing what I love for living, whatever it will be.

I dream about having kids, loving them, taking care of them, teaching them what life really is about.

I dream about living the years I have on earth to the fullest and enjoying them with the people I care about.

I dream about seeing the people I love the most living happilly ever after.

I dream about being happy. And this time, I'm fighting for my dreams.