When we’re young, we believe that time is our worst enemy. We believe that every second that ticks by is just a second closer to our oblivion. However, as we grow older and wiser and (ironically enough) time passes, we realize that in the end, there really isn't any such thing as time. It doesn't exist. Only clocks and watches do, and they truly are the devil's crafts.

There's a time to wake up and there's a time to go to bed. There's a time to smile and there's a time to cry. There's a time to love and there's even a time to hate. Everything is labeled with a time. Even when you make a wish - whether it’s time for your birthday and you're blowing out the candles on your cake or your phone, watch, clock, etc. notifies you that it's 11:11.

There's also a time to live...and a time to pass on.

Like many, time used to be my enemy, as well as my friend. Frenemy...? I was always pressed for time. The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours and the hours turned into days and the days eventually turned into years...my teenage years flew by all too fast, and because of the life I had, I never really had a chance to truly be a teenager. Sometimes I sat and I cried as time ticked by in the background, quietly mocking me.

However, at the same time, time was on my side. I used to think I had the worst timing...but now I realize that my timing was nothing but good. When I was about to end my time here on this cruel world as I stood on top of a cliff with a gun to my head, Harry just so happened to be there to save me. That's just one example of perfect timing. And let's not forget...time did of course grant me my 11:11 wishes.

Looking back, I remember the timeline of my childhood and up into early adulthood.

I began to feel the pain – the pain that no one should ever feel: depression – when I was just ten years old. My mum and dad fought a lot. In fact, it seemed like that’s all they ever did. All they ever wanted to do. It was like a hobby to them. Perhaps even a game. Whoever walked away with the last word, won.

By eleven, I was miserable. However, I refused to show it. I wouldn’t allow what happened at home to affect me when I was with my friends or at school. I showed up to my classes on time, got good grades, and had quite a few friends. I made sure a smile was always on my face at the right times, and that was that. No one could possibly say that I didn’t try to be happy.

When I was twelve, I started to be more self-conscious of my weight. I wasn’t considered fat to others, but to me, I was obese. I didn’t have a flat stomach, which was very disappointing to me. It rounded out a bit, and was also kind of pudgy. My thighs touched when I put my legs together, which brought me to tears almost every time. Why did I have to be so chubby? Why couldn’t I be one of the skinny girls?

At thirteen, I wanted to be pretty. I began to wear some makeup and dye my hair…I changed up my wardrobe, and I did my nails…I waxed my eyebrows and my legs…I did anything it took, anything I could possibly do to be just the slightest bit prettier. The more I looked down on myself and the more insecure I got, the more anti-social I became. I lost practically all of my friends…it turns out, I only had one true friend who stuck around with me, even through the bulling I now received. But he didn’t know what I was going through. Nobody did. In fact, at the time, I hardly even knew what was happening to me.

I turned fourteen, and I just wanted to feel loved. The sad thing was, I didn’t even love me…so how could anybody else? All of my old friends were going out on dates, or had boyfriends…as a matter of fact, some of them even had sex. Now, at only fourteen, I would never have sex with a boy, but I wouldn’t have minded someone liking me. Someone asking me out, or even merely flirting with me. But, no…I was just the shy weirdo who kept her head down and lips shut.

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