Sixteen years I've lived this life.

Sixteen years, and I still hate the girl in the mirror.

Adopted when no one else wanted me, when fear was all I knew.

My family says I was perfect, but if that was true why did I have to go?

Who I am, I do not know. My dad is gone and my mom won't tell.

My eleventh year and I was in the hospital.

It started it all, the crumbling of my perfect demeanor.

I feel that my case is impossible. There is no cure for someone like me.

No. Sometimes I feel I'd be better off dead.

These words pound through my head. They tell me I don't deserve what I have.

Sixteen years, and I'm still afraid of love.

A simple hug can send me back to a time where I did not know what a human was.

Bipolar depression. That's what I am.

The way I treat my family, caused by that. Of course, that exscuse is just a sham.

I don't know how to love, not the way they do.

I feel that I should, that I could if I treied.

But who would I be without all this anger?

Today, things have calmed some. Mhome is filled with laughter.

But for how long? I act like I am so strong.

In reality, I'm weak and about to break.