In the 5th grade I met a girl who looked happy.

She laughed like the rest of us, talked like the rest of us, and walked like the rest of us. She made jokes and smiled at our reactions. She may be just like someone you know. She woke up at the same time as us, did the same homework as us, yet she was different.

One day she told me she cried herself to sleep. Laughter blew away her words. Another afternoon she told me that she enjoyed scratching herself with anything sharp. 

I saw her scars once.

Her excuse: "It makes the pain inside less worse," as I studied them, wondering what in the world could be more painful than those injuries.

She brought a piece of broken glass to school one day.

The next day, she was put in therapy.

I'm not sure if they made the pain go away or not.

In 6th grade I met a girl who looked shy.

She hovered nearby but had a good sense of humor when you got to know her. We made jokes and she laughed with us. She may be just like someone you know. She woke up at the same time as us, did the same homework as us, yet she was different.

She was infuriated whenever her best friend missed school, and would manipulate her into staying. She would obsessively romanticize over boys she had crushes on.

One day, I learned that her dad died when she was young.

She couldn't talk about it to anyone. She envied us for having what she never would. She became attached to her best friend and felt as abandoned as an orphan when they weren't together.

She wanted her dad back more than anything, but part of her knew it would never happen. But she couldn't give up. Then hope would give way to pain. Instead, she latched onto a male figure more attainable: a boy in our class. I remember studying her pain to try and understand.

She could never be content with her life because she felt like she was missing too much.

I lost contact when her anger issues became toxic, and I don't know what happened to her.

She probably still carries that pain.

In 7th grade I met a girl who looked mysterious.

She was a rebellious girl with a sarcastic and fresh comedy. Her cynical comments were hilarious and precious. She may be just like someone you know. She woke up at the same time as us, did the same homework as us, yet she was different.

Often, in passing, clothed in humor, she said that she hated her life. Or that she hated herself. Or that she hated her family.

Her mother was racist, cruel, and emotionally abusive.

Her life was so painful she had dissociated and no longer felt emotions. She no longer felt anything anymore. I often ponder what it must have felt like.

She decided to hate herself, because it was better than loving herself the way her mom did.

I try to keep in touch, but it's hard to tell how she's doing.

Her laughs are hollow, but at least her pain is numb.

In 8th grade, that girl is me.

I understand the pain now.