[ My mother died when I was six]

My mother died when I was six. I don't know why I say that now, but it seemed important for some reason. I mean, I would have been six that February. It was August. I think. I’m not entirely sure. But when my dad called us three kids together, I remember my sister guessing 'what, did mom die?' she wasn't even serious or anything, but she was right. I cried all night, even though I hadn't seen her that often. I mean, she was my mother.

She had been living in a half-way house, as I remember. It didn’t bug me, but I didn’t fully understand either. I didn’t understand that she was there because she had gotten out of jail. I didn't know then, and I don't know much more now.
One memory I have, I don't know how old I was, is sitting in my backyard, feeling the big scar on her arm. It was a gun shot wound from when she had tried to kill her self with a shot gun. I don't know why she wanted to die, but she was manic depressive and an alcoholic. The gun was in my daddie's possesion, but it was my uncle's gun. The police took it away, and I'm not sure my uncle ever got it back again.

I lived with my dad from when I was four to- well, I’m still living with him, so it’s been eleven years. I was in foster care from when I was one and a half years old to when Dad got custody. Before that, I don't know.

I don't really remember the foster homes, except for brief flashes, so I don't think they are that important to me. I mean, I was so little, I don't think I understood.

We moved when I was seven or so to a duplex in a big city. The summer after my ninth birthday we moved again to the tiny town I am currently living in.

We moved in with my dad's girlfriend. They got married the next January and I had a new sister and brother, both older than me. My brother was the oldest. He was, I think, 16 when we moved in. After he turned eighteen, he said some nasty things to my new mother and moved out. He was of legal age but he and my parents had had some agreement that he broke. That's why he left in such a mess.
It was, I think, one year after that when my new sister began to yearn for freedom. She was 17 at the time. Well, she got it what she wanted. The first time, though, they sent her back home, but the second time she went to the police and they took her out for good.
They put her in a foster home and we wern't allowed to see her. And, I have to say, it didn't exactly break my heart. I am still having problems with her, mainly because she is so self-obsessed that she always thinks she is right. Not to mention she's a total bitch.

Then my other sister, the one who has always been with me, always taken care of me, wanted out. She was sixteen.

She asked me, the night before she left, if I would hate her for it. And I said no. And I meant it, I still mean it. I don't hate her for what she did. She went to the police and hasn't been home since. For a long time, we weren't allowed to see or talk to her. It hurt so much. I mean, I love my sister, more than anyone else, really. She’s always protected me, and, in a way, she still is protecting me.

So I mourn the loss of my sister now, and I miss my mommy as well. I want to go see Mommy's grave. Daddy says we'll go soon, but I doubt it. It’s not like I think he's lying, I just don't think we'll ever get around to it.

So much has been going on in my life. And most of it i didn't know how to deal with. And then I heard about cutting. I started cutting a year ago in August. And I haven't been able to stop. It worked to deal with everything, and so i just kept using it. But I have so many scars I can't even begin to count them, and I have found I am addicted to pain. I cannot live without it, and, at this point, I have no desire to. My life has not been great, and a lot of times I want to leave as my sisters did.

I know people have it harder than I do, but I am severely depressed, though I am taking anti-depressants.

People don't seem to realize that pills don't just fix everything. I mean, I'm not drowning in my problems, but I'm not exactly thriving either. I'm still suicidal at times, though not as drastically, and I still feel so lost a lot of the time. I'm still asking for people to help me, and I'm still being ignored. So, yeah, if you ask, the medicine has helped. It's helped a lot. But it hasn't solved anything. I still feel like shit whenever I am happy, as I don't think I deserve to be happy. I still feel as if I am worth nothing, and I still hate myself the majority of the time.
And my mother died when I was six. I don't know why I say that, or what importance it has, but it seems important, somehow, someway.