I've always hated school, the struggle if it. The early mornings, the tough questions, the excessive work to put into useless projects that are only worth 15% of the overall exam. But worst of all, I hate the people. Nasty, unaccepting, and, above all, hurtful.

It all started when I was four years old. My mother had dressed me smartly in the navy pinafore, with the size three black shoes. Those shoes shined like oil on white silk.

In my natural primitive fear of those more powerful than me, I hid behind my mother's protective frame, from the teacher. Seemingly, it was ineffective, as the teacher walked around my mother. My mother left me under the care of the teacher.

Our teacher sat me beside a girl who I'd known a little. I had never gotten along with this girl; I still have the bite mark she left on the crook of my elbow, twelve years on. I spurted my orange juice all over her, as she had insulted me for not having a father around to care for me and buy me nice things like the other children. I was made stand up for an entire half hour. That can't be healthy for a child who hadn't been able to walk very well until a few months before. My mother was called in, and, sprouting tears from my unwise eyes, I told her why I had poured my juice all over that girl. She took me in her arms, patting my back until my sobs had finished wracking my body.

At the end of that week, I had a banana for lunch, with a sandwich. A girl of an older age group walked up to me and told me that I'd get fat if I ate that fruit. Disgusted, I tossed the offending banana forcefully into a nearby bin. For an entire week, I refused to eat anything. Eventually, my mother came to the realisation that she'd have to force feed me. I'm grateful she did, as I was quite close to death. Four year old children should eat as often as possible, for growth. But, having my mind set on my weight, I hated her for it. My body rejected the food, as it was too heavy after endless days of no nourishment. So, my mother had me eat one yoghurt, followed an hour and a half later by a cup of soup. She built me up on food, getting heavier and heavier until I could finally eat properly again.

Many smaller events followed, many not worth following. The worst in primary school was when I was in sixth class. We were walking back to school from church, as it was a catholic school. I was the last into the classroom, aside from the teacher. An onslaught of being insulted with the name 'Slutzilla' was the beginning. The entire class began physically punching and kicking my young body. Age eleven, with two suicide attempts under my belt. One was starvation, the otherhad been a scarf tied around my neck. Somehow, I'd managed to lock myself into the bathroom and cried shakily until the teacher walked into the classroom.

That evening, I told my mother and stepfather what happened. My mother went into the school with me the following Monday, as the incident had been on a Friday. She talked with the principal and had an argument with my teacher.

All my life I had been anorexic, but I was afraid to starve myself. I had tried as a child and it had hurt my mother so much. Every day, I'd look down at my mental version of my stomach and abdomen. Tears sprang to my eyes every time I look down.

The next year, I transferred to secondary school - high school, really. Now aged twelve, I tried to fit in. I wore makeup and tried not to act any different. Still, I was insulted, emotional torture tormenting my scarred mind. Being suspended twice for standing up for myself, I doubted I would have any good job in the future. By then, I took to self-mutilation. Even now, my skin itches with desire to indulge in dragging a sharp edge across it.

The girls in my year made rumours about me, which spread like an unquenchable flame throughout a rugged desert of brittle wood.

The scars spread from my feet, to my thighs, to my hips, travelling up my sides, opening my torso and even tracing from my neck to my entire two forearms. I had pulled my mother through so much shit, that when she saw my third suicide attempt on my wrists, she had called me a freak. The lines spread downwards, between my ulna and radius, then stretched across from my wrists to the crook of my elbows.

At age thirteen, things took a turn for the worst. I mixed vodka with a strong whisky. It tasted strongly of window cleaner almost, but at least it took the spiteful thoughts away and replaced them with happier thoughts. It seemed as though my mother had stopped caring, but at least I didn't have to worry about her being hurt again.

Now, I have to transfer schools. On numerous occasions I've been told to drink bleach. I know a twenty year old who went to my school. Things were just as bad for him. Now, he carries a gun at all times. Therapy isn't helping him through his depression. I wish I could help him, but in reality, I'm so far below the surface, I am walking at the bottom of the sea.

School teaches us how to tie nooses and knots. It teaches us how to use a knife to your needs. The hell we go through teaches us how to avoid others, to be antisocial, to die alone and unloved.

Dearest Readers,

I hope you'll never have to experience this or haven't. If you're a parent, there is a key to helping your child. If the school does not take action against bullying on your third visit to the school, demand them to let your child transfer. Many have lost their lives to those who hurt them physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Signs you should look for in your child:

•Quieter

•Snaps easily

•Standard of work dropping significantly

•Bags under eyes from lack of sleep

•Pretending to be sick to avoid school

•Panic attacks

•Cry too easily when laughing

•Chronic bitchface (not really smiling, just a fixed, blank expression)

If you do see your child's scars, if they have them, don't ask them why, don't cry, don't get angry at them. You should sit your child down, make them hot chocolate or warm milk and sit them on your knee. Grab them in an embrace. When they cry, pat them on the back and tell them it's going to be okay. Ask them if it's school, when they've calmed down and when he/she drinks their hot beverage. They may look down, nod, or tears may slip down again. This is confirmation. Go to the school about it. If nothing is done on the second or third attempt, transfer them.

I do not care if this story is flagged; people need to know what goes on behind a school's 'repetition' and 'appearance,' as it can mean life or death in a severe situation.

Keep strong, darlings. You're beautiful, whether you have imperfections or not. I wish I could say that sentence to your face every day, just to have you smile and keep going.

You're beautiful;

Shannon.

Keep going. If you ever struggle, listen to Beaten In Lips by Beartooth, if you like metal. Gotta Be You by 1D if you swing that way. Cleaning Out My Closet by Eminem helps the rap community. Avenged Sevenfold tell their fans that if they're ever going to try something, listen to Crimson Day. Their lead guitarist said this to my friend if she ever felt like cutting again.

Physical, emotional and mental.

Around the age of 3/4, just before I began school.

Peers, classmates, teachers.

For lack of a better word, depressed.

Yes.

I had to explain why I came home crying every day after school.

Until I was 14.

Peers still have the occasional back-handed comment, I guess.