I don’t think it’s good that I’m having panic attacks when I realize I have to go home in 10 minutes.

Maybe I should leave. Maybe I’d be better off on my own instead of with the people who hate me.

If I left now, and never looked back, maybe I’d be better off. Maybe then I wouldn’t hurt so much. Maybe then I wouldn’t hear their voices every night saying I deserved to die, and everyone like me.

When I talk to them, I hold my breath. I tuck my hands deep into my pockets, shrink back, and look for the closest door — just in case I need it.

I know why I do this. I know why I panic. I know why I’m so screwed up. But no one else does. I wish I could tell them. But it would just mess everything up.

The moment I say what they say, people cringe, but they don’t do anything. And if I say what they do…

I don’t want it to get worse. I’m just so scared I can’t even handle a hug from a friend who I know won’t hit me any more. I miss the feeling of safety. I’m afraid because I’m forgetting what that feeling is like.

Just three more years, I keep telling myself.

I don’t know if I will make it through this summer, but maybe I’ll try. Maybe I’ll stay and try to make things better. And maybe I won’t feel the need to hide from my parents anymore.