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i'm surprised i'm still around. maybe i'll last
I started cutting in sixth grade. I have depression and the fact that I was overweight made me a target. I hated myself. I still hate myself.
I lost sixty pounds in the last two years. I cut myself on and off, even though my best friend and parents found out a little after I started. I promised I'd stopped, that they only saw old wounds. I lied. As far as weight loss goes, I talk about it like I'm proud of it. Someone even encouraged me to start a blog on it, like I'm in any place to give advice. I started binging and purging a year or so ago. My mother found out. Again I promised I'd finished doing it. Again I lied.
I throw myself in my writing. Its the only thing I'm good at. My best friend was dating a guy only a few months ago. She takes journalism like me. She's the star pupil. I guess I'm not as good a writer as I thought. I guess I'm good at nothing. Then she became close friends with a guy I've been close with since preschool and had developed feelings for. They're dating now. I miss talking to him, just the two of us. I admit I'd settle for just being friends like we were, but she's always the topic of conversation. Even when she's not present, she's still there
I started learning to drive. My instructor says I'm pretty bad. I've only had two two-hour lessons. I don't remember the exact amount of times I've contemplated crashing the car.
I'm the shoulder to cry on with my friends. They say I'm a good listener. They don't thank me for it but they do get quite pissy when I tell them something they don't want to hear. When I turn the conversation around to something that I want to get off my chest, they can't leave fast enough.
I don't want to be here. I think randomly sometimes that I want to go home, even when I'm lying on my own bed. I'm not sure where it is I want to be I guess. I don't think I'd still be here if it weren't for my parents, not because they make it easier on me but because I don't think they are emotionally capable of dealing with the death of their daughter. I don't want to cause them that pain. I've seen parents lose their child. They don't recover.
My sister, too, I worry about. I love her more than anything and that keeps me going. She makes it easier but I only talk to her every other week or so. I feel guilty telling her all my problems. She got out of this stupid suburb, a feat I doubt I'll repeat, and I don't ever want to make her think she has to come back for me.
I guess I'm around for now. I don't think I can say I'm alive for now. I'm not sure if that's what I can call it. I still wonder if I'll get out of bed tomorrow.
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