Pat

Main blog: Patscorner

[patsothercorner]

Try Again

TW: mature themes. do not read if you can't handle it. based on true real events.

I was 3. During an eye appointment, when I said I couldn't see the letters on the giant glowing screen. The doctor looked at me.

Try again.

I was 4. The dresser had fallen, me taking the brunt of it. I'm trapped, under the bed, where I attempted to seek shelter. I'm stuck. I can't get out.

Try again.

I was 6. After an hour of attempting to tie my shoe, my father glared at me.

Try again.

I was 8. Tears in my eyes as I get tackled to the concrete by a middle schooler. I told him I couldn't get up. He looked at me, outstretching his hand for me to take.

Try again.

I was 9. I walk down the stairs, and watch as my father presses his knee into my mother's neck. I listen to my mom call his mom. Saying she's gonna leave next time, but that for now, she'll do what she's been doing.

Try again.

I was 10. My father showed me how to mow the lawn. I miss the line, again and again. My dad rolls his eyes.

Try again.

I was 11. Locked in my home, while people outside suffered. The virus taking over every source of entertainment I had access too. I ask my sister to play a game. She says no.

Try again.

I was 11. I sit in my room and stare at the walls. Walls that were once clear, now have marks of my agony and suffering. I pick up the blade and swipe it across my skin. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. It's late. Maybe 3am. I open the medicine and scan for the ones I'd think would do the most damage. I take 4. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. Tears fall down my face as I stare at the pills once more, this time, they've multiplied. 16. I take them all. Something happens. I start to think. About my life. About all the things I have to live for. It isn't much. Still, I stick my fingers down my throat, and gag. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. Third time wasn't the charm. Neither was the fourth. Or the fifth. Maybe it's not my time. I think that's what my mom thinks when she looks at my arms. She asks if I want help. I look at her.

Try again.

I was 13. The blade was buried under dust, left untouched. Tears fall down my face as my therapist tells me that my father has good reason to beat me. She tells me kids have the tendency to be dramatic. I look at my shelf, where my worst enemy had found home.

I was 13. I stare at my sister as my father threatened to shoot my cousin. I watch as the boy who made our life hell for two years, sits there, and faces the man I've faced many times before. He's scared. He picks up his shoes and leaves. I don't miss the way my father smiles at me. Saying the same words.

Try again.

I was 13. The music volume isn't enough. They're yelling again. Fighting. You'd think they'd be tired of it, the arguing. But everytime, it's the same thing.

Try again.

I was 14. Getting home from a fun day at the fair with friends. The house is quiet, the silence as stark contrast from my pretty cousins running around. Young, one still a toddler, one starting 5th grade. My sister and I sit on the bed as my father stands in front of us. They're divorcing. They'll figure out the details later, but for the night, he's leaving. He does. My mom sits us down on the couch. He'd choked her. The kids were awake. Nobody knows what they'd heard. She wasn't going to assume they'd heard nothing. She'd ask when they were awake. Until then, we do what we keep doing.

Try again.

I was 14. We hadn't moved out yet. School had started. I wasn't enrolled. They hadn't accepted me. My mom suggests we move to the same district.

Try again.

I was 14. We'd moved out. I'm a week behind. I don't know anyone. Making friends is hard.

Try again.

I was 14. I made a couple friends. They're not great. It's okay. Better than being alone. I look at the walls of my bedroom. White. I can't bring myself to put anything on them. They're better white anyway. I've looked through the boxes. I've found the blade.

Try again.

I was 14. My mom stared at my arms once more. Not as bad as last time. An isolated incident. She asks if I want help.

Try again.

I was 14. New lady. She's nice. I like her.

Try again.

I was 15. I sit in my room, staring at the white walls, bottle in hand. I hadn't opened it. I stopped this problem a while ago. I look at the bottle. I open it. What's the harm?

Try again.

I was 15. I don't know how much I'd drank, maybe a shot or two. I open the medicine cabinet. Do I do it?

Try again.

I was 15. Tears fall as I listen to my dad's voice through the phone, muffled by my mom's ear. She's not crying, but I can tell she wants to.

Try again.

I was 15. They're going to therapy. We're going out to dinners again. He's coming over again. We're going over again. They're getting back together.

Try again.

I was 15. I'd tried again. A couple times. Every time, it'd failed. So I gave up. Maybe living is for me. Maybe I should be like my mom.

Try again.

I was 15. Living's not so bad. It's hard. But maybe it gets better. Maybe it's worth it. Maybe, instead of giving up, I should do what everyone else is doing.

Maybe I should try again.

Maybe trying again is hard, sure, especially when that's all I've been doing. But I guess when you do something long enough, you start to get the hang of it.

It's easy to say it. Try again. But doing... one of the hardest things we'll ever do as humans. I'm only 15. I shouldn't know the things I know. I shouldn't have gone through what I have.

I'm more mature than my sister, even though she's older. I've shielded her. She doesn't deserve to think the way I do, to realize the things I do. She doesn't like that I've done that. But it's hard to just stop when I've been doing it for years.

I've tried again. I haven't picked up the blade in months.

I'm trying again.

I stopped drinking. Addiction runs in my family.

I'm trying again.

I still talk to my therapist. She's helped a lot.

I'm trying again.

I've made great friends. Real friends.

Trying again.

I haven't tried to stop trying in almost 6 months. Fighting for me.

It's okay to fall. It's okay to struggle. It's okay to be sad. It's okay to cry. It's okay to not be okay.

It's not okay to not try again.

From me to you, do whatever you want. I can't make these decisions for you. But I can tell you this.

Try. Again.

[kmoneymartini]

holy shit pat.

Not good with deep shit but this was fucking good.

[patsothercorner]

thank you my love 💙

[patsothercorner]

Try Again

TW: mature themes. do not read if you can't handle it. based on true real events.

I was 3. During an eye appointment, when I said I couldn't see the letters on the giant glowing screen. The doctor looked at me.

Try again.

I was 4. The dresser had fallen, me taking the brunt of it. I'm trapped, under the bed, where I attempted to seek shelter. I'm stuck. I can't get out.

Try again.

I was 6. After an hour of attempting to tie my shoe, my father glared at me.

Try again.

I was 8. Tears in my eyes as I get tackled to the concrete by a middle schooler. I told him I couldn't get up. He looked at me, outstretching his hand for me to take.

Try again.

I was 9. I walk down the stairs, and watch as my father presses his knee into my mother's neck. I listen to my mom call his mom. Saying she's gonna leave next time, but that for now, she'll do what she's been doing.

Try again.

I was 10. My father showed me how to mow the lawn. I miss the line, again and again. My dad rolls his eyes.

Try again.

I was 11. Locked in my home, while people outside suffered. The virus taking over every source of entertainment I had access too. I ask my sister to play a game. She says no.

Try again.

I was 11. I sit in my room and stare at the walls. Walls that were once clear, now have marks of my agony and suffering. I pick up the blade and swipe it across my skin. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. It's late. Maybe 3am. I open the medicine and scan for the ones I'd think would do the most damage. I take 4. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. Tears fall down my face as I stare at the pills once more, this time, they've multiplied. 16. I take them all. Something happens. I start to think. About my life. About all the things I have to live for. It isn't much. Still, I stick my fingers down my throat, and gag. Nothing happens.

Try again.

I was 12. Third time wasn't the charm. Neither was the fourth. Or the fifth. Maybe it's not my time. I think that's what my mom thinks when she looks at my arms. She asks if I want help. I look at her.

Try again.

I was 13. The blade was buried under dust, left untouched. Tears fall down my face as my therapist tells me that my father has good reason to beat me. She tells me kids have the tendency to be dramatic. I look at my shelf, where my worst enemy had found home.

I was 13. I stare at my sister as my father threatened to shoot my cousin. I watch as the boy who made our life hell for two years, sits there, and faces the man I've faced many times before. He's scared. He picks up his shoes and leaves. I don't miss the way my father smiles at me. Saying the same words.

Try again.

I was 13. The music volume isn't enough. They're yelling again. Fighting. You'd think they'd be tired of it, the arguing. But everytime, it's the same thing.

Try again.

I was 14. Getting home from a fun day at the fair with friends. The house is quiet, the silence as stark contrast from my pretty cousins running around. Young, one still a toddler, one starting 5th grade. My sister and I sit on the bed as my father stands in front of us. They're divorcing. They'll figure out the details later, but for the night, he's leaving. He does. My mom sits us down on the couch. He'd choked her. The kids were awake. Nobody knows what they'd heard. She wasn't going to assume they'd heard nothing. She'd ask when they were awake. Until then, we do what we keep doing.

Try again.

I was 14. We hadn't moved out yet. School had started. I wasn't enrolled. They hadn't accepted me. My mom suggests we move to the same district.

Try again.

I was 14. We'd moved out. I'm a week behind. I don't know anyone. Making friends is hard.

Try again.

I was 14. I made a couple friends. They're not great. It's okay. Better than being alone. I look at the walls of my bedroom. White. I can't bring myself to put anything on them. They're better white anyway. I've looked through the boxes. I've found the blade.

Try again.

I was 14. My mom stared at my arms once more. Not as bad as last time. An isolated incident. She asks if I want help.

Try again.

I was 14. New lady. She's nice. I like her.

Try again.

I was 15. I sit in my room, staring at the white walls, bottle in hand. I hadn't opened it. I stopped this problem a while ago. I look at the bottle. I open it. What's the harm?

Try again.

I was 15. I don't know how much I'd drank, maybe a shot or two. I open the medicine cabinet. Do I do it?

Try again.

I was 15. Tears fall as I listen to my dad's voice through the phone, muffled by my mom's ear. She's not crying, but I can tell she wants to.

Try again.

I was 15. They're going to therapy. We're going out to dinners again. He's coming over again. We're going over again. They're getting back together.

Try again.

I was 15. I'd tried again. A couple times. Every time, it'd failed. So I gave up. Maybe living is for me. Maybe I should be like my mom.

Try again.

I was 15. Living's not so bad. It's hard. But maybe it gets better. Maybe it's worth it. Maybe, instead of giving up, I should do what everyone else is doing.

Maybe I should try again.

Maybe trying again is hard, sure, especially when that's all I've been doing. But I guess when you do something long enough, you start to get the hang of it.

It's easy to say it. Try again. But doing... one of the hardest things we'll ever do as humans. I'm only 15. I shouldn't know the things I know. I shouldn't have gone through what I have.

I'm more mature than my sister, even though she's older. I've shielded her. She doesn't deserve to think the way I do, to realize the things I do. She doesn't like that I've done that. But it's hard to just stop when I've been doing it for years.

I've tried again. I haven't picked up the blade in months.

I'm trying again.

I stopped drinking. Addiction runs in my family.

I'm trying again.

I still talk to my therapist. She's helped a lot.

I'm trying again.

I've made great friends. Real friends.

Trying again.

I haven't tried to stop trying in almost 6 months. Fighting for me.

It's okay to fall. It's okay to struggle. It's okay to be sad. It's okay to cry. It's okay to not be okay.

It's not okay to not try again.

From me to you, do whatever you want. I can't make these decisions for you. But I can tell you this.

Try. Again.

[patsothercorner]

disappearing off the face of the earth seems to be a better option.

[patsothercorner]

sometimes it's for the better.

[patscorner]

THROUGH THE LENSE

Paige's Point of View

=======================

{a collab with @bueckerslover , based on Hit Me Hard And Soft}

Chapter 1: Lunch

Chapter 2: ???

Chapter 3: ???

Chapter 4: ???

Chapter 5: ???

Chapter 6: ???

Chapter 7: ???

Chapter 8: ???

Chapter 9: ???

Chapter 10: ???

Chapter 11: ???

=======================

Looking for Madeline's pov? Click here :)

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taglist: @wintersstan @bueckerslover @lilia22hicks @fake-intelligences @girlokwhatever @pbloverr @breeloveschris-deactivated20240 @cosmopretty @hellokittyfeenie @averagelobotomyenjoyer @elliewilliamsthang @chelisbae @angelscovee @st4rrzynight

[patsothercorner]

sobriety has got to be the hardest thing to maintain.

[patsothercorner]

how to prevent crash out, no borax, no glue

[patsothercorner]

I fear I may be crunk tf up rn

[patsothercorner]

Yapcity bitches.