The title is basically all of it. I used to cut myself when I was 12-13, that was the time when I started to suffer from depression. When I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression at 19 my mother accused my best friend to make it worse (basically bc she's depressed as well) I knew her 3 years ago so in a moment of total anger I showed the scars to my mother. 11 scars on my left arm, I always said that I made it fallen from a rock. My mother didn't believe me, the worse thing is that she said I was making this up for hurting her feeling...how... narcissistic you have to be for thinking about this, your daughter's showing an arm full of scars and the first think is "she's making this up". I remember me crying my eyes out, begging her to believe me, saying I WISH it was a lie, asking her to believe me but she responded "I don't know who you are anymore, so I don't know if that's true or not". After a while she said she believes me, but there was no apologies, nothing. When my father was back home she said angrily "Say it again in front of your father". I did, because it was true, of course it was true! Then I spoke to my father and maybe it was worse: "She didn't believe me" "So what? Yes she didn't believe you but if she didn't believe you in the first place when you said you were fallen you surely had to complain about that in all the ways you would find a way to blame her for something" "But dad..SHE DIDN'T BELIEVE ME!" "Oh yes sometimes in her life she raised an eyebrow...so what?" "I had 11 scars on my arm" "Count them" If I would have the strength to fuck him off, to fuck everyone off I wouldn't count them but I did, and it was humiliated. There was no apologies, no remorse, no pity, no love, only an horrible memory that I have to hold tight for all the moment that I think I'm overreacting, that I am the one to blame, that I am the cruel person they let me thought to be. In some way, they done me a favor.