On my vacation, my family went to Florida. Since we drove 1500+ miles, I had plenty of time to think, which I took advantage of. I came to the conclusion that I really do hate myself. I say I hate so many people, when I just want to die. It'd make my family's life so much easier, less dramatic, less chaotic.
I constantly tell myself the words I feel I need to hear.. You're so fat; just one cut; go find your damn pills and just make everyone happy! The sad part is, I listen to this voice. I can't live without this voice in my head insulting me, accusing me, day and night. I can't give myself a moment's peace for fear that I'll be happy and ruin something good.
I rather like being by myself, just me and my psychotic voice. It gives me a chance to come up with more insults more things about myself that I hate. Trust me, there are quite a few. My weight, body, attitude, looks, past, present, future. Everything, to be honest. When I really feel like a failure, I tell myself exactly what I will probably end up being when I grow up. A druggie. Just like my old man, as I used to say. Like father, like daughter.
I guess the whole point of my letting my blog know who my worst enemy is is to explain my behavior. Thanks for reading.

These are the only pictures I have of my 'addiction'...I don't usually show them off, but I try to be honest on my blog

If You Really Knew Me

If you really knew me, you'd know I feel awkward and ugly in comparison to Hayley. You would know that my biggest fear isn't spiders, it's being alone. I don't ever want to be alone, no matter what I say. If you really knew me, you'd have more patience. You would know that I only try in school so my parents might actually decide I'm worthy of being called their daughter. You would know how badly I want to escape, to run away forever.
If you really saw me, you'd see my bones poking through my skin. You'd notice that I get weaker and skinner every week. You'd notice that I don't eat half the food I put on my tray. You might see that I refused my favorite food. If you really saw me, you'd wonder why I wear knee-highs in gym and when I wear shorts. You might notice the dark circles under my eyes. If you looked, you would see that my eyes look glazed. You might ask about it, if you really looked.
If you didn't just hear the words that I say, but actually listened as well, you'd notice the life in my voice isn't as vibrant as it used to be. You'd hear the difference between what I sound like now compared to before. You might hear the pleading in my words. Maybe, just maybe, you'd hear my cry for help. You might hear the depressed tone, the dead humor.
If you really cared, you'd do something.

Academy Award (or whatever actresses get)

It amazes me what I can do by smiling. I can fool numerous people into thinking that I'm perfectly happy, incuding the people that 'know me best'. Sometimes, I fool myself. That's acting for you. No producers, no scripts, just reality. I don't know who directs this movie, but I want them fired..
The doctors tha are supposed to notice abnormal behaviors even fall for my mad acting skills. "What's with the wristband and sock tied around your leg?" "Oh, I just want to look cool." (While smiling) I can fool the teachers, too. "Why didn't you finish your assignment, Brenda?" "I'm sorry, I was so busy last night with all my Language Compacting and lessons and family bonding that I was so exhausted that I did terrible. Can I redo it?" "Sure, Brenda. No problem :)" In reality, I was 'busy' staring at the wall and wishing I could have a cigarette. A drink. Crank. Anything. Just something that will numb the pain. I spent the better portion of my night keeping my hands from rummaging through my drawers and finding my blade. I spent the other portion eading through Jim's first letter to the court requesting my immediate removal. I reviewed every accusation-from threatening to kill my parents to causing Hayley's stomach ulcer. I cried until two. That's a very calm night.
Woke up today, put on my award-winning smile, and went through the day without a breakdown. That deserves some kind of national recognition..

Cut

I'm asked so many times why I cut myself. I honestly don't know the exact purpose. But I do know what it feels like to carry the scars, to watch your hand control the blade that makes you bleed. I can tell you all the details about having to deal with this addiction.
I swore to myself that I'd stop. I promised so many people that I'd quit hurting myself, because it hurts them too. But I'm stuck in this mindset that, no matter who says they care, they don't. They just say that to make me tell them the lies that I believe them and I've stopped. I hate breaking that promise, but, as an addiction, it's painful to try to stop.
I guess cutting is a way to immediately rid yourself of the disgust and emotions building up inside myself. The fights, the tears, all that stuff. I write, yes, but sometimes, there are no words. There's no way to describe certain feelings. And sometimes I don't know how to say it. So my body insists on me releasing the indescribable feelings. Hence, a broken heart on my leg. A round bump on my left wrist. Or maybe open sores on my arms. Either way, it's self -harm.
But I don't know yet if I want to give up my addiction. I feel so terrible when I cut, but I also feel relieved. I can't scream, can't cry, so I feel so unburdened when the blood starts to show. So I'll continue to try to stop, for the sake of my friends.