It is quarter past one, I am twelve years old. I have just left the school lunch hall, we got in late again today. I don’t know what I am supposed to do for the rest of today. I don’t want to have to go and sit though a whole lesson of double history- for the majority of the year I quite like it, it makes a lot of sense to read something, find out what you can about it and then decide who is telling the truth. It is very logical but today I don’t feel much like it. I spoke to Sam earlier, I sounded very immature and I was made fun of. Not like it matters.
When you think about it nothing really does matter, not me, not him not whether the leaves on the trees are brown, orange or green. None of it really matters in the run of things. Only a few people in this world ever get a chance to matter and I’m just not one of them that’s all. It doesn’t really matter if I turn up to history today, or if I just went and disappeared.
It sounds silly coming from me, I know that I am too young to think this but some of the time I really hate myself. Some of the time I really like to see myself hurting, I deserve it. I can be so stupid, so immature and so just worthless. I hate myself, I really do.
I am twelve years old- I am healthy, I am rich enough to eat. I have two parents, I am not dying from cancer or something horrid but sometimes I wish I did suffer from something. I wish there was something wrong with me, that it wasn’t just imbedded in my personality to be sad.
I am twelve years old and I already know how I want to die. I already know that I want to die.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
this is really good, your writing style is very similar to Mark Haddon's, he is one of my favourite authors. This is very different to other stories i have read. It's really good, can't wait to read more.
We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken
I am healthy, I am rich enough to eat. I have two parents, I am not dying from cancer or something horrid but sometimes I wish I did suffer from something. I wish there was something wrong with me, that it wasn’t just imbedded in my personality to be sad.
Quote:
Originally Posted by isc
those last few sentences almost just made me cry.. it sums up exactly how i feel except im a fair bit older than 12.
It is seven twenty-four. I am sixteen years old. I have just finished eating dinner with my family. I’m a little worried today. My cuts weren’t too bad- I was very controlled but I don’t know if the bandages were showing or something because my mum was looking at me very oddly. She kept glancing towards my wrists and back to my meal. I can’t be bothered with this today- it’s really not the right day to do this. I know that she doesn’t know about any of this and that is she did she’d probably just try to help, well perhaps help is the wrong word but she would definitely help me to cover it up from the world. She seems to enjoy having the control to make me do whatever she tells me to, she doesn’t know I often have full control of myself. That no matter what she says or does I am still the directing force in my own life.
She doesn’t know that I cried myself to sleep for approximately 8 years of my life- not that I do that anymore. I can’t really cry anymore, sometimes I wonder if I’ve used up my tears for this life already.
She doesn’t know that I have complete control over what I eat- that I have lost enough weight to lose my period- she wouldn’t even notice. She doesn’t really care what I look like and she doesn’t know what size I am. She just gives me £70 every four months and tells me that I should ‘try to look nice.’ When I do try I am asked if there is a boy involved- which I always fervently deny. The ones there have been don’t matter to me now.
She doesn’t know that when I feel bad I know I have one good, steady coping strategy. And she doesn’t know that this strategy is slowly taking further away from people.
In fact no one seems to have noticed that I’m slipping from this world, I’m becoming nearer to the other world made for me, the world I see in my dreams. No one has noticed that I have a panic attack on the bus almost every time I travel. No one notices me counting under my breath, over and over. No one has noticed that I cry in lessons. No one ever notices when I’m in lessons, or when I decide I don’t want to go. No one seems to see me, I mean if they do then they are just careless- the amount of people who will walk into me, laugh and splutter a weak apology. I think I’m the only one who knows how alone I have made myself. Someone, please have some mercy. Please just take the time to see me and to see that I’m not coping.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is eight forty-two. I am four years old. Mummy is driving me to school; we’re passing under the big oak tree which scatters acorns all over the road sometimes in the year. Acorns crunch under my feet like the noise paper makes when you screw it up. Mummy is crying. I don’t know why, she hasn’t said anything for a while either. Eventually I can’t help but to ask her, even though I’ve been enough times by Daddy that when Mummy cries she wants me to be quiet and not talk to her about it. “Mummy,” I ask as quietly as I can without being so quiet she can’t hear me. “Mummy what are you crying for today?” Mummy lifts up her head slightly and sits straighter in her chair. “I’m not crying sweetie.”
I scrunch up my face and rub my eyes but when I look back at her she still has red puffy bits under her eyes and her nose is running. I am so sure she is crying. She looks just the same way I do when I cry. I shuffle in my car seat and I say very quietly again “Mummy.” She looks at me for a second then her attention flicks back to the road. “Mummy do you love me?” I ask.
She glances at me once more, “of course I do. I’m your mother. Every mother loves her own child.”
I learnt two things that day. I didn’t know that love was compulsory before then. That every child must love their mother and that every mother has to love their child. I thought love was an emotion but if I think about it as an emotion it doesn’t really work.
Because love means wanting to be with someone, no matter what they look like or what they have done. Love means trying to make people better when they’re ill and knowing they would do the same for you. Love means you think about that person a lot. I don’t think that if it was voluntary anyone would do it. Wives have to love their husbands. Mothers and fathers have to love their children. Dogs have to love their masters. People have to love God. People have to love someone for them to do things for them. My mummy doesn’t do any of the things I think of when I think of love as an emotion but she does try to look after me.
The other thing I’ve learnt is that it’s okay to pretend not to cry sometimes. Sometimes if it’s too hard it can be better to keep it inside and not spread it to everyone else. Sometimes it’s okay to lie to other people and even yourself if it helps you feel better.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
I think I’m the only one who knows how alone I have made myself. Someone, please have some mercy. Please just take the time to see me and to see that I’m not coping.
It is eleven fifty nine. I am eight years old. I am outside even though it is cold because the wind is really sharp today. We are playing a strange game it includes hitting a ball with your hand then running up to past this line then waiting and trying to run back. I don’t like it. It seems utterly pointless and I don’t really like sport anyway.
I mean think about tennis for a moment. One person fires a ball at another person. Each person holds a net strung across wood to protect their face and a net up to their waist to protect their legs. Then to top it off often both players are the placed in a large net so that they can’t escape. It is like torture.
I don’t understand why they try to force me to do something I just can’t do. It’s not that I’m not trying- I am. I am trying really hard just sometimes you can be bad at something no matter how hard you try to be good. Sometimes failing isn’t your fault.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is sixteen minutes to ten. I am twelve years old. I hate myself, I really hate myself. I am so just, oh ****. I have never been so stupid in the whole of my life. Why the hell did I even think that? I was at a party- the whole year was there and I just. I tried to kiss him, just to touch him. Just like everyone else has. I know he didn’t want me, I’m not that stupid. I just wanted to feel alive; I just wanted to feel needed for a change. Someone please just like me, just RESPECT me. I don’t want pity, I don’t want love. I am not prepared to beg for you to bear me I just need something.
Suddenly my mind clears. It’s something I promised myself I would never do after that first time. But you have to try something more than once before you say that you don’t like it; don’t you? I scrabble through my box of toiletries, past the boxes of lip-gloss and the shower gel that I have been given for endless birthdays and Christmases. Eventually my fingers find the plastic bag which contains 5 razors- twin bladed. Mum gave them to me a few weeks ago but I didn’t know quite what to do with them so I figured I’d wait for a bit. I know what to do with them now. I grab either side of the packaging and pull it open, like a bag of crisps. The razors fall into my lap, like the oddest form of rain.
I fight with the plastic casing, eventually scissors, tweezers and pure determination find their way and the blades fall from their housing. I wouldn’t have thought that they would be so thin and light. I could probably snap it. I look at my hard fought for treasure and sigh. I don’t think I have it in me to actually cut myself. It’s gross to imagine the blood on the outside, to actually have to cause yourself to bleed. I think I’m still too afraid. I pick up the razor blades in on hand and go to place them into a tiny makeup box.
I glance at my hand; a thin line of blood is creeping down towards my wrist. I turn my hand over and I notice that I nicked my thumb with a blade whilst attempting to get them out of the plastic. I look in amazement at the blood and after a moment I am myself again.
The second, the deliberate cut, I feel. It feels good.
Last edited by Olive branch : 09-05-2009 at 04:30 PM.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is seven twenty. I am sixteen years old. I hit my alarm and its frenzied bleeping halts. I sit up slowly, today is a good day. It is a Friday, the last day before I can hide away from the world. Groggily I pull myself to the bathroom where I inspect myself- having failed the inspection, as per usual; I walk back to my room and begin the eternal routine. First I grab a cleaning wipe and my toner from my drawer. I use both and then turn to more pressing matters. First I take off my pyjamas and fold them neatly onto the bed. Then I take my bra, check the size- 30 D, and I put it on. Then I put on my pants- size 8. This is my only form of counting in the morning; I just count the sizes of my clothes and I am content. Then I start the real work. I take out my makeup bag and take out the cover-up cream I bought off of the internet a while back. It was intended for burns victims. I paste this over my left arm and I rub it in until the colours of my skin are blended to a generic yellowy pink. I check my work and dislike it, I used too much today it looks unnatural. I then decide to use the powder I bought a few weeks back for when it gets really bad. This does help matters.
My right arm still has a bandage on it; I reluctantly remove it and glance at the area from last night. It has swollen and each cut has a bruise around the sides. I use my cream around the newer marks and I glance worriedly at the newer area. I find a few smaller plasters and stick them over it. At least they are moderately skin covered. Then I dress in my school uniform, it has three quarter length sleeves for the summer, this irritates me to no end. I collect my usual bracelet collection and cover as my of my right arm as I can. I feel disgusting still. I hate the way I look.
I smile slowly; I don’t hate my scars as much as I hate the rest of me. At least they can’t lie.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac