I have friends. Not besties, but they're just a handful of people who are pretty close to me and actually give a fuck about my life.

I wasn't really bullied at school. If anything, I was the one that teased others. I was bullied at home. Both my parents died in a fire when I was little, but I still remember them. I was sent to an orphanage, where Madame, as she made us call her, abused us horribly (sorry if that counts as a name, I don't feel like she was a parent nor a guardian). We had one meal a day if we were lucky, and she would beat us to sleep.

And, of course, nobody wants to adopt a skinny little girl with ugly cuts and bruises, right?

I think I teased other kids because that was what I was taught at the orphanage. I thought it was okay to treat others like that. Since my guardian did it, why couldn't I? Boy, was I wrong. I now realize how stupid and ignorant that was of me.

I was never adopted. And I still lived in the hellhole called the orphanage. That's why, at sixteen, I went out with my friends (I'm sure they were only nice out of pity) and bought a few cans of spray paint.

Yep, I turned to vandalism. I figured cutting myself was useless, I already had plenty of scars. I spray painted a pretty (in my opinion) flower on the side of the school. The next day, people pored over the simple little picture while I sat there, silently soaking up the attention. No one knew it was me, but the feeling of actual people liking your creations was unbeatable. Even after they power washed it away, I started graffitiing more and more often, making my statements a bit more bold little by little.

And I haven't been caught yet. But it's a form of art, and I love the feeling of adrenaline rushes when someone almost catches you.

Anyways, that's what I did to deal with the pain of Madame. The pain of missing my parents awfully. Believe it or not, graffiti became my safe place. Only with a handkerchief over my mouth and a bottle of paint separating me from the wall at night did I feel at home. It was the glue that bonded me with my friends, and thinking about what I would paint next distracted me from the abuse.

Yeah. I come pretty close to suicide every now and again, but, quite honestly, street art is what keeps me anchored to life.

Now I am nineteen going on twenty in December. I live alone and I have a job teaching art to kids at an art camp. I couldn't be happier. I'm not ashamed of my battle scars, and I enjoy being the mystery graffiti artist whose art keeps being featured on the news.

Anyway. (I keep rambling I'm sorry about that) My point is, you have to find your passion. Mine, being art. Your's might be, I don't know, music? Sports? Writing? Do what makes you happy, and don't let others bring you down.

Find your passion and stick to it. If you like music, become a musician! If you like sports, become an athlete! Don't let others hold you down, you have to pursue your own future based on what YOU want, not what they want.