Hands

I am 16 with Depression. I have more than scars and I have lost both of my parents but I am. I sing. I live. I love. I am a person. But I never used to see myself that way. I was bullied. I hated my accent. People said I sounded posh but I thought I just spoke plain English. I hated the way I looked. I wasn’t pretty or skinny. I wasn’t tall or rich. I didn’t have anything to give put of my hands. My mum went from a more severe addiction to crack when I was a baby to the less severe addiction to cannabis. Because of this, we had little money. I owned nothing that was designer. I had nothing to give from my hands
but because I had nothing in my hands. All of what I owned came from the not so local charity shop. My mother told me never to tell anyone that we bought clothing from the charity shop but never told me why. I learnt the hard way. I was bullied because I couldn’t afford the latest shoes and bags. Because I didn’t wear the latest trends. I mean, I was a young girl being bullied for what I didn’t have. I hated my home. My mum would beat me, my younger brother damaged me. Hit me, whipped me. Home was just as much hell as school. Because I had nothing in my hands to make anything any different and so I put something into them with coercion. I stole. I kept thinking, “I would prefer a prison cell, no one can hurt me there.” But I never got my wish and my hands became empty once again. But this time for my own safety. Mentally. I nearly got thrown out of school. But I was saved.Why? I don’t know. But I carried on growing and confided in the word that I had read in books. And I wrote poetry. Sad poetry. Beautiful poetry. Until it became an art. Still I hated myself. Nothing fitted. My face was a dishevelled mess of scars. My heart mutilated with pain but my hands. I had learnt what I could give out of my hands in unity with my heart. I could offer words and emotion and love. I could make people feel. And with that realisation came pride. I accepted something I could be proud of. Something I loved just as deeply as any important person within my life. My words. And I wrote my pride grew. I used to wear so much make-up that it became my mask. But eventually, that fell away. Simply because the words I spoke made up part of my identity, my personality and decorated my face with character. Allowing me to accept what I looked like natural. A few scars here and there but this time it was just the same as my heart. Scarred. But it was acceptable. I had pride that they were part of me. They recorded the experiences that I had lived through. Survived through. And after I found my voice in written word, I found it verbally. I spoke for others and now pride survives in my heart. Pride in the fact that I now have a voice. Pride that my scars that I once saw as the ugliest part of me became the most beautiful. Because pride helped me lift others. Keep someone alive in one case. Help people accept that they too are beautiful. Aesthetically or not. They are beautiful and ugliness is forcing others to make themselves hate themselves. Forcing them to feel ugly when they really are beautiful and they, not just me should have pride. Pride is not a curse but a blessing because once you have pride you have proven confidence and though confidence need not be proven, only within ourselves can we truly know what pride is.


I wrote this as stated, aged 16 years old and I wrote it to myself to recognise what I had been through rather than identify with it and empower myself in times of angst, frustration and upset throughout my journey through life as a foster child and later as a care leaver. 

This is extremely personal to me. Thank you for taking the time to read. It is appreciated.