Why am I writing? Because I need someone. I need to tell someone what is happening in my head. Who better, than someone who won't listen? Not that anyone else I could've told would truly listen either. But I like to think you might just read this.
Just the other day, I saw a picture on the Internet. Of course, you can never trust the validity of anything there. But it was a screen shot (or looked to be) of your Instagram-olobersykes (or so it said). It said someone had given you their last razor. The rest of "your" quote (I only say "your" because I don't know if it really was you) went on to talk about cutting and depression. You said to listen to your music. I guess my point is: it made it seem like you really get some of this crap. The crap in my head. And it made me think about telling someone.
As I write this, I am listening to your Sempiternal album, as you said. It is at full volume, and on repeat, as it usually is.
Perhaps I should get on to the things I need to talk about. It's just hard to do, since they are not easy things for me to talk about and it isn't easy for me to talk to people in general, even if they aren't listening.
Alright.
Things I Need to Say:
First, you should know who I am. I am Conner Skuse. I am a seventeen year old girl from America. I love you (in the "I'm a huge fan" way, not the "I want to have your babies" way) and Bring Me the Horizon. Also, You Me at Six is amazing. I live in a small town in Michigan. I live with my mother and younger sister. I have a total of two friends. One of them, my best friend, is my boyfriend. He's the only one that I can really talk to. So, now, you're wondering "Why don't you waste HIS time with this bullshit?" Because he's always being taken from me. His father is strict when it come to grades, you see, and Logan, my boyfriend, isn't the best at math.... So, for the year and a half we've been dating, he's been grounded for at least 10 months of it.
That's part of the crap. The crap in my head, that is. But I should explain the other crap first.
Growing up, my parents fought all the time. I don't remember much of it, but I know my dad was an alcoholic then, a mean one. As I got older, I realized we lived just above the poverty line, and even bellow it a few times (we had been homeless when I was an infant). But, my father didn't work. He had a few random jobs. But, after awhile, he stopped trying altogether. My mom worked hard, long shifts to support me, my elder brother, younger sister, and father. When I was about 13 or 14 years old, I began to rebel against my whole family. I dated bad guys who were worse to me than my father had ever been to my mother. I snuck out at night, drank, smoked, snorted. Then I found a boyfriend who I thought was perfect. He was different than the other guys. I cleaned up, but only a little. And then that boy, after nearly three months of dating, got bored of me. He started seeing other girls. When I went to confront him, before I could say a word, he dumped me. About a month or two later, I cut myself for the first time. I did it for almost a year. I started skipping class with a friend and we would smoke and cut together.
Finally, I was caught. I felt so bad when I saw how it hurt my mom to know what I was doing. I quite smoking, drinking and drugs. But I continued to rebel at home. I fought with my siblings endlessly. I started arguments with my father too.
When I was a sophomore, I met a boy who thought I was perfect. He eventually asked me out and I said yes. We'd been together a few months, when one day, at my house, one of the fights with my father started. I'll be honest and say I do not remember what started it, but I know, whatever it was, it was stupid. My father threatened to call the cops on Logan if he didn't leave (not that Logan had done anything whatsoever). Logan made his way to the door, and I tried to follow. My father got in my way, and when I tried to push past him, he smacked me across the face. Later, my jaw swelled and bruised from the force of his hand. Since that moment I didn't dislike my father anymore; I hated him.
Hate. "Hate is a strong word." Then hate truly is the word to describe my feeling for him. And, yet, I cry. I cry because I miss the time when I was just a child and I believed he was good. I though I knew how he was. I did not see the fights, they were soon forgotten. I went on, blindly happy. And then, I grew up. It was quick, I can't even tell you how it happened. It seems like I woke up one day and I was no longer blind to the reality of that man and of our house, our economic state....
But I continued on with the life I grew to hate. Day after day. Returning to the same home, walking through the house, straight to the room I shared with my sister. I stayed there until I was called for dinner. Then I did my chores and it was back to that room. I begged my mother countless times: "Please... I'd rather live in a home than here... I wouldn't mind the shelter.... Just not here, not with him....." She said she would when she could, she was trying. I grew impatient... And then, I gave up. I didn't believe she would ever be able to leave him. I talked to my boyfriend of moving out at 18. "I'll get a job and save. I want to be moving on my birthday, I don't even need a party or presents. And, once I leave, I'll never see him again."
Two weeks ago, we moved into a new house. My mom found it, just outside of the town we live in. We're moved. I have a job. We're away from him.
But I cry. I cry every night. I am losing so much sleep, I can barely pull myself from bed. It's hard for me to eat. I have to drag myself through work, trying my hardest to keep up. My homework is pilling up, but I can never get to it... Because there's always more to occupy my mind.
I guess, Oli Sykes, the point of this is only to do as that picture said: "just tell someone about it". It did help, I suppose. I'm sure someone who is as famous as you are wouldn't really care to hear the problems of some messed up 17 year old fan girl. But, nobody else can listen to me either.
If you actually read this, thank you for your time. I love your music.
Sincerely,
Conner M. Skuse
