Instructions

In third grade, a girl at my new school told me "if you weren't so weird, people would play with you"

In fourth grade, a boy punched me in the face and said, “You’re a freak. You should work on that.”

In fifth grade, a girl came up to me and said "if you cut and maybe dyed your hair, we could be friends"

In sixth grade, a boy told me "if you lost weight and wore makeup, you would be pretty."

In seventh grade, people told me, “You should go kill yourself, you’re a freak”

In eighth grade, people told me, "You should swallow some pills and slit your wrists."

In ninth grade, a boy said "The sex is great, don't get me wrong, but nobody could ever love a bitch with a bunch of nasty ass scars."

In eleventh grade, people told me "you should drink bleach and be the next Amanda Todd. Life would be better for everyone"

In twelfth grade, I said: I've had enough.

I have tried so god damn hard to be good enough for everyone.

I’ve followed their instruction booklets and done exactly as they said, but somewhere along the way, I lost the only important instruction manual.

The one that told me how to be happy.