I really want to be normal. That’s what I told my therapist at 11. Now the same at 21. I don’t know what normal means I don’t know what it looks like but I know it’s not the depression I fall into all the time. It’s not the panic attacks. It’s not the trying my hardest to remain calm, calm enough that I don’t go back to doing things I’m not meant to. My therapist at 12, she asked what normal meant. I told her it meant happy, it meant two parents that loved each other. It meant some type of dad, some good dad, one that wasn’t an alcoholic, one that didn’t shout and throw things and hit people. I lied to my therapist at 21. I said my boyfriend feels guilty when he throws things, I said I felt safe. Some days I don’t know if it’s fault or mine, some days I worry for the cats sat next to him. Some days I take them out of the room, and now I’m 8 again. This time though, it’s my fault. It’s my fault I want to die.