When I was twelve years old and my parents were in the middle of getting a divorce, everyone told me that it was my fault. My siblings hated me, my mom couldn't look at me, and my dad and I haven't been the same for years. I didn't understand how I could be responsible for the breakdown of the bond that created me, but I slowly became the pain that somehow drove my parents apart. The cuts on my arms are like those rumored to be on my mom's heart after I broke it. The weight that I've been gaining since the sixth grade stomped all over the hopes of my siblings for a normal family. All in silence. The one guy I reached out to for help was so nice that I couldn't hurt him. He didn't deserve all the pain I could inflict with the flick of my wrist. I was almost there- I could have told him, he told me that he was my big brother, but I didn't. I'm literally a bulldozer, I destroy everything in my way. Sometimes I remind myself that it gets better, that I was not the reason a broken marriage shattered completely. And one day I'll have the strength to say this to my big brother. One day I won't forget.