[story of a girl]

your anger don't impress me.

2006-08-18T17:28:23Z

sand filters through the hourglass
like the hands of the clock
tick, tock, tick, second by second:
a slow but steady passing of time;
an ending of what you wish was forever,
a glimpse at what will never be:
time to fix what went wrong.
.
.
.
candles glimmer in the darkness,
flames licking wick, a breath of
serenity as the room is bathed in
light tones. the rhythm of the music
wafts through the air, eerie in the
dead of silence. the melody seems to sway,
somewhat like the arms of trees
that scratch at your window. haunting, almost,
as you finger the edge of the blade
and contemplate what lies ahead.
.
.
.
i paint my lies with a shell of sorrow,
masking them with duplicity and a
futile attempt to make you think
all is fine. voice fading, i whisper in
the night. i'm okay, i promise.
i paint my lies with a shell of sorrow,
masking them with duplicity and a
futile attempt to make you think
all is fine. you don't believe me.
.
.
.
i never knew that everyone
was waiting to run,
that the darkness had control
of the ever falling sun,
i never knew that time
had a hold on life,
that something so simple
as a hot-heated knife
could end what was wrong
and start what is right
like leaving the world
in the silence of night
i never knew that you were a lie
just waiting to decieve
pausing to let me down
as i rolled up my sleeve
i never knew that pressing
that knife to my skin
would have yourself racing [to me]
like my heartbeat within
i never knew that life could fall away
in a swift twist of fate
or that the blood coagulating
would be the last taste
i never knew the stars
would shine quite so bright
or that ending my life
would cause such a fright
i never knew putting down the knife
would be the right step
but i did it, i did, and i'm
free without regret.

ecstasy.

2006-08-18T01:47:13Z

those nights with you
were ecstasy. no - not the
sugar-coated lies and lust
that come with swallowing
of multi-colored pills in a
darkened room with friends.
no - the kind of drug you inhale
when the sky glimmers in a
scarlet sunset. no - the kind of
intoxication your cologne brings, your
hot breath against my neck,
kissing my hair with euphoric scents
far beyond words. no - the kind of high
of you and me and us and
the way the world just stops when you smile.
that, sweet love, is ecstasy.

doctor, can't you give me something, a day in the life of someone else? cause i'm a hazard to myself

2006-08-17T18:06:16Z

saw dr. terry this morning. it went well. i think she was surprised to see me back, but it's fine with her that i continue seeing her. she really is very nice; just lacks knowledge in behavioral health issues she should be familiar with. she didn't change any of my meds, but suggested next time we talk about lithium and/or wellbutrin (again) because i'm not getting any relief from the depression. i know medication isn't a cure-all so i'm going to try to work harder in therapy, too... like bring in my art, my writing, my workbooks, help her get inside my head. eventually, it's up to me, but i need help, too.

coffee. two rice cakes. leg lifts while reading. not good. i'm gonna go see what there is to eat seeing as i haven't eaten in six hours. i took a nap and kind of just forgot to eat. maybe something's down there that will appeal to me. lately, food tastes like cardboard and i can barely stomach anything... my depression has stolen my need for satiety, food, you name it. anyway, here's a poem i wrote in anticipation of october.

october, how i love you:
your twisted, emaciated limbs
arch towards the sky,
shedding leaves like
a snake does its skin.
crisp and crunchy beneath
soles of battered tennis shoes,
i walk amongst these fallen leaves,
relishing the cool winds
swirling through the sky.
october, how i love you:
you greet the world with beauty
in the changing of the seasons.
summer reaching an end; sticky
heat no more. winter on the horizon,
cold, frightening life ahead.
yet you bring peace and beauty,
solitude and comfort.
october how i hate you:
for thirty-one days you are
but a blessing in disguise,
for autumn meats winter in a
tangeled mess of withered branches,
frozen ground, abscence of sun,
and the center of what kills us all.

monster //

2006-08-16T17:11:09Z

faster, faster,
don't you know the monster
takes no breaks in bringing
about your demise?
faster, faster,
don't you know the monster
stops at nothing
to bring about your cries?
faster, faster,
don't you know the monster
will always be the one
who drowns the truth in lies?
faster, fasterm
don't you know the monster
is the reason your soul
eventually slips and dies?
don't you know?
or did the monster lie to you, too?

poems

2006-08-09T19:50:33Z

poems...

FALL:

sharpen up your lies
with the knifes jagged edge
whisper to the stars
as your hanging by a thread
the strings are freying now
about to break in two
look up to the midnight sky
at the deep enchanting blue
wish upon a shooting star
and hope and pray you die
the withering rope breaks, you fall
but you're dried of tears to cry

SILVER SAVIOR:

melancholy memories
ripping through my dreams
i try to make a sound
but silent are my screams
that drip down the painted walls
coated black with night
echoes of a broken child
erupt from lips tonight
flash, flash, it all comes back
us naked, hands, the game
please, oh, please, don't want to play
i cry with fear and shame
in time the memories slowly pass
but still they haunt my dreams
so i take my silver savior
and watch the red blood stream

DRINK THE SORROW:

i hate how every song
reminds me of what was
so i take another drink
to sharpen up the buzz
that blinds you from my memory
and casts you from my soul
i try to fill the void with booze
but you've left a gaping hole
so i toss another back
hell, what's one more
everything seems fine
till i hit the bathroom floor
collapsed in blood and tears
your memory at bay
i look up to the ceiling
and pray this goes away
nightfall casts shadows
playing on the walls
this drunken, heart-broke, little girl
slowly sinks and falls

ADDICTION:

starvation be my cure
razor fill the need
to waste away, ease the pain
that comes when fresh cuts bleed
i tremble as i listen
to the sound of my own cries
and i shiver at the cold
that comes when summer dies
autumn is the devil
winter greets with death
the cold and freezing rain
rob me of all breath
suffocate me, lay me down
and end it all tonight
no longer will i live
in the darkness, in this fright

THE STORM:

meet me in the halls of hell
where shadows come to play
rain clouds litter darkened skies
and mask the sun with grey
the storm it rages on and on
until its had its fill
but even as the sun comes out
these hazel eyes still spill
tears of sorrow, tears of lust
of how we once were one
and then i realize, horror screaming
the storm has just begun

GONE:

we sit in silence
our words a foreign entity
to spaces once filled
with sweet whispers of
our passion and love
i want you but
your not giving in
and this hurts more
than those empty words
can ever bring meaning to

FACE THE MUSIC:

hop in the car
just cruising downtown
bouncing to the beat
and movving to the sound
rhythm washes over
and sorrow plays guitar
every single lyric
just adds another scar
and then it all comes down
to memories at dawn
i gotta face the music
no more, you're gone

LOST:

you pull my broken heart
in a twisted tug of war
string bound to break
wither, can't take much more
i scream out for an end
but still your game prevails
the darkness inside grows
my will to fight soon fails
with a bruised and bleeding heart
you hold high in your hands
victory is sought, you say
for now ruined are our plans
of yesterday, now and then
of dreams we chased when young
melancholia sets right in
whats lost has now begun

WITHOUT YOU:

just driving down the
twisting roads and steep hills
that rise and fall like our heartbeats
colliding with the shards
of broken stars we wished
on long ago. blood spurts from
punctured loss and shattered bits
of burnt love with smoke like
cigarette ash: thick and hazy. summer
rages on, but i've never felt so cold.

STARS FADE:

stars fade into a backdrop
of blackened skies
tears mist and slip away
from your brilliant jade green eyes
hope is lost in all of this
for now theres bitter sorrow
that grips us tight and
holds on to tomorrow

OCEAN:

with eyes like the ocean
you entice me with the
waves of your soul
and the crash/crest of your
ever flying spirit that rolls
with ease like the water
tickling our toes as we walk
along the beach, fingers entertwined.
and i think this is love.

ASHES:

i paint the sky
with ashes of your burning memory
set ablaze by the torch
of my undying need to watch
the pain turn to dust
like hiroshima, clouds of black
penetrate what once was blye
and at last i am calm as the
flames leap higher, devouring
your memory with the scorch
of red and orange.

FLAMES OF ABUSE:

you set my heart ablaze
with your burning hot desire
i'm lost in clouds of smoke
and still you light the fire
anger sears inside this soul
like embers from below
burning hot, they wait to spark
then boom, burn, leap, explode.

YOU AND ME:

you push away the paian
indulge in your escape
crimson tears and razor blades
destroy the you i hate
you're with me every morning
face shattering the mirror
distortion blurs my empty eyes
a view that won't get clearer
cut your wrist when darkness shouts
seal your lips with lies
the broken girl inside us both
is hollow as she cries

FEED THE ADDICTION: (dedicated to ryan)

the needles feed you gold
as calm runs through your vein
inject syringe, your eyes roll back
feel it wash away the pain
cut your poison into lines
a mirror and a blade
snort it up and cut some more
watch your problems fade
so overdose on apathy
swallow pills until they're gone
i guess its like they always say
there'll be darkness before dawn

STOLEN SUN:

the darkness stole the sun
and left me here to bleed
it ripped my heart and bruised my soul
and left me with the need
to self-destruct and cut my skin
to end the screaming pain
it glared at me, screamed, go get a knife
and cut your poisoned veins

VULTURES:

huddled in a black chair,
sqeaks and faux leather
i hide behind my book. i am a word
painter, an artist of the windows of
my soul, spilling all that begs to be
spilled, telling and writing what must
be put down to fill the empty void.
like vultures over prey, my thoughts race
and then attack: fast and swift, swooping
down and enveloping me in darkness, then
going in for the kill. vultures, thoughts.
thoughts, vultures. i think the thoughts are worse.

face the music [poem]

2006-08-08T17:09:04Z

hop in the car, just cruisin downtown
bouncing to the beat, moving to the sound
rhythm washes over and sorrow plays guitar
every single lyric just adds another scar
and then it all comes down to memories at dawn
i gotta face the music, no more, you're gone.

understanding

2006-08-05T20:05:21Z

during a grocery shopping trip with my mom and brother my mom and i had quite the discussion/argument about my progress with recovery from my eating disorder. it started with my brother michael (home from college now) saying that he wanted to join the gym i previously belonged to but had to cancel my membership to because of the "no exercise for six months" rule at sheppard pratt. he started talking about getting a family plan and it got me all excited. at first my mom was adimantly saying no, that would be breaking your recovery. but then she was like "who cares, you're not trying anyways." basically. um, excuse me? i AM trying, thank you very fucking much. i am paying out of my own pocket ($140 a month) to see a dietitian. i am eating a hell of a lot more than when i was first admitted to the hospital. i am not overexercising. i am not taking diet pills. i have purged only twice. i am not restricting or starving. true, i have a problem keeping myself hydrated. but that is it. i am trying my ass off. it is hard as hell and she has no idea the dedication i am trying to put into it, or how badly sometimes i want to just scream at her "fuck you i'm trying!" or how hard it is. she has no fucking clue how badly i feel about myself. she took the scale away, with the rule of letting me weigh myself once a week when previously it was 20 + times a day. does she have any idea how hard that is? but i'm trying. i'm fucking trying and she is just burying her head in the sand and saying that i don't eat enough "balanced" meals and that i am not "waking up on time to eat breakfast with her." as long as i eat, who gives a fuck what time i wake up. true there is strength in routine and schedules and eating at the same time each day like they suggested in the hospital but i can't follow EVERYTHING and still keep my sanity. i am not losing weight or gaining. i am maintaining and so we started having this discussion about how i'm not trying and how if i went to the gym and got a family membership with my brother i would go crazy with it. i have learned a lot from sheppard pratt and i feel okayish in recovery enough to go to the gym. i never agreed to the no exercise for six months in the first place. i am an adult and fully capable of making my own decisions. true, i have had issues with compulsive exercise in the past, but why not give me a trial period to see how i do? why not let me try? why not give me a chance? where is the trust. i know i lost it with my disorder and lies but it has to be restored sometime. i don't know.... i don't even know where this is going. i am just so angry that she says i'm not trying. if i wasn't trying i'd be out exercising in my room, running when she wsn't home, buying diet pills, buying my own scale and weighing myself secretly as much as my fat ass pleased. i would be starving and purging and not eating and lying and not going to a therapist, psychiatrist, or paying out of my own pocket for a dietitian. she makes me want to scream. am i doing those things? no. no, i am not. so shut the fuck up.

to make matters worse today is the three-year anniversary of my parents separation. it always hits me hard because i am still not over it. i still miss my daddy whom i don't see enough. i still hate their arguing and name calling and bickering and immaturity towards eachother. i still cry on father's day and the holidays because it is splitting the family and i wish everyone could just get the fuck along. but no. today is the anniversary and i am just sad as shit and my mom just needs to deal with it instead of trying to piss me off about "not being in recovery" which is a load of shit.

i have to get ready for work soon... just wanted to do an update on how things are here. oh, and for all you "saw" and horror movie/thriller fans: saw III comes out halloween 2006. hell fucking yeah.

later.

up and running.

2006-08-05T01:23:00Z

it's a miracle! my computer works! jack like went in my room and all of a sudden it was working so i'm doing a quick update before i go see the descent.

michael graduated today - yay michael! it was anixety and nerve wracking having the whole extended family there with people not speaking to eachother and all but i guess that's just the way dysfunction and family events work.

i'm exhausted lately... depressed... anxious... haven't cut since the first. went to a buffet today for the lunch after the graduation and only ate cottage cheese, fruit, and soup. everyone got worried. "is that enough?" and my mom "monitored my bathroom use" afterwards. that pissed me off. i'm not some child who needs to be watched. i can not puke on my own, thank you very much, and i haven't in quite some time.

get paid tomorrow at work. i need the money to buy books. school starts in 3 weeks... i'm really excited. anyways...

off to the movie.

poetry.

2006-07-25T03:28:04Z

[the stars]
and the pain is gone
as i am swept away
by the stars of november
beating down the asphalt
like cloud-kissed rain,
pelting the crackled blackness
with wet tears of the sky. and
in this i cry, for it is beautiful
and the hurt melts away
with the glow of the stars afar.

[tell me no lies]
you were my savior;
deliver me from evil.
take me in your arms
and wash away the pain
like you wiped my tears
with the back of your palm,
ignoring the black streaks
of goth-glam mascara that
stained your skin. perfect
fingers swept across my face,
pausing to touch at my lips.
"you'll be okay" you whisper,
leaving me breathless with
your husky, sandpaper voice.
but i know you're wrong.

[moments in the grass]
set me free, please, set me free
from darkness masking the stars.
i want to feel the sun,
i want to feel the breeze brush
against the bare skin of our bodies
as we lay in the grass, moist with
morning dew. and i want to feel
your lips on mine, pressing hard,
compacting our love into a moment
only we can share.

[i think you saw me first]
i think you saw me first,
sitting at the table alone.
not eating, writing with a
manic frenzy comparable
to speed. i think you saw
me first, truly happy as we
walked hand in hand, shoes
scuffing on the sidewalk, talking
of the moon and stars. i think you
saw me first, soul bared and open
to your eyes: darkness and obsession,
panic-stricken as horrid memories
swallowed me in tears. but i know you saw
me last as they strapped me to that bed
and whisked me to the hospital, for you
weren't there, and we never got to say goodbye.

[lovenotes on hotel paper]
and i write notes of tomorrow,
letters of today, on crinkled hotel
paper, my handwriting a loopy cursive
scrawl as i profess my love, my pain of
your abscence, and my longing solely
for your return. and later i will swallow
bottled death in an attempt to stop
the spinning in my head. pill after pill,
down my throat, swallowed with stale-tasting
apple juice. i'll pick up the phone, forgetting
your number in my pill-induced ecstacy and
dial the hospital. we'll be there soon, they promise,
as they tell me to stay on the line. but you won't.
you won't. and i wonder why and what i did to make
it be this way.

[my downfall]
do you remember when we
went to my mother's restaurant and you saw,
really saw, me at my worst? i sat, sullen, not
eating, dying a little more each day, but where were
you when i took that blade to my wrists
and pressed down? where were you when they told
me come with us. where were you? i only wish i knew.

[the taste of your lips]
oh, how i remember the taste
of your lips, your affection, the scent
of your skin on mine. shaking, how it hurt
when you held my hand in yours,
caressing it softly while you kissed me softly,
passion like wildfire in your eyes,
ripping through the forest of my soul,
burning down the walls and barriers,
kiss me, i whisper, and you do. oh, how
you do, and it is something magical.

[fragile sanity]
i whispered goodbye to you
as the one thing i clung to slipped
through the pads of my fingers: our love.
heart breaking as my fragile strings
of sanity slowly tore us apart. wither, wither,
wither, they are breaking. we are breaking
i am breaking. breaking. broken. gone.

[careless]
when i wake thoughts of you
simmer to my heart and i feel
this burning inside. get up, vitals,
walk down the hall to be weighed.
cringe at the number and realize
that you were the only one i ever met
that didn't care what it said.

[alive]
when i touch your hand
sparks explode inside this body,
and for the first time in weeks,
i feel alive.

[wishing on stars]
the burnt sienna branches
arch towards the sky in a
criss cross game of reaching
for the stars. we lay in bed,
staring at the moon, and you whisper
baby i'd give you the stars if i could.
i smile to myself as one shoots by,
and make a wish to stay in this moment
forever.

[just a boy]
hesitant at first,
you were just a boy,
just a boy i met at school.
you understood me, you
spilled your soul into the pad
of paper you carried around with
you in your pocket; bits of poetry
and writings here and there,
windows to your soul, words of
your everything and when i shared you mine
you inhaled and wrapped your arms
tighter around me. beauty, baby, beauty.

[telling mother]
so there's a boy.
i come home and tell
my mother, sitting at the kitchen
table gabbing like sixth-graders.
he's tall with brown hair, kind of
scruffy with a voice like sandpaper
kissing wood: a mix of suave and grit.
i tell her of your smile, that boyish grin
you flash each time we laugh, that immature
nature you expel with your every doing. and she
gives me this great smile because for once i'm
smiling, too.

[self-destruction]
you walk me to class. march comes
with snow falling on tree limbs, with
ice pelting the windshield of your car
as we drive during lunch. get something to eat,
you urge me. it's okay. but i know it isn't,
so i get coffee and a salad, push it around on
my plate, take a bite or two for you,
go to the bathroom and sigh as i purge it from
my body. come out reeking of mouthwash and
lavendar hand-soap, fall into your embrace,
and wish it wasn't like this.

[life on standby]
my life is on standby when
you're not here. my life is lost
without you in it. and it's now more
than ever that i need you.

[drink you in]
i want to drink you in,
inhale your cologne like
i take in a midnight sky of
sparkling stars or a five o'clock
sunset dazzling the sky with peach
and dandelion. i want to inhale the nights
together, swallow them down, store them
away for times when i'm alone. i want to
drink you in. i want to drink you in.

[love is...]
love is us lying together,
entangled in ourselves,
cool sheets hissing as we move
to the music, lips kissing skin.
love is us holding hands walking
down the sidewalks after class,
and you pausing to pick me a flower.
love is you and me and us together
and how we make it all fit so.

[forever stained]
i don't know why, but sometimes
i find myself just staring at the sky,
and i see your eyes, your face,
painted across the clouds. i shake my head,
try to wipe you from my mind like
an eraser on the chalkboard. but your
forever painted in my eyes,
and that's something that will stain forever.

[those eyes]
i could write pages about your eyes.
i trip on my words as i attempt in vain
to describe the look in your eyes
as you tell me you love me. those eyes,
those eyes, they are so beautiful in their
sparkling splendor. they tell stories untold
by your whispers, they share secrets unshared
by your mouth, they give away your everything
and they take away my nothing and give it... something
quite like love.

breakxthexstars

2005-12-14T19:58:17Z

i got a new computer, email, and screen name. (for my vision accommodatios, no i'm not that rich to be able to afford a new one.) anyway, my new email is: breakxthexstars@aol.com and my new im is breakxthexstars, so everyone add me. :)

blah. depression is killing me. it took two hours to get out of bed this morning. yes, two. this is bad, really bad. i can't seem to get better. i'm breaking. i have therapy tonight and i don't even know what to say. no words can encompass how depressed i feel. words can't describe the pain raging through me or the severity of this hell. no words can even begin to express how bad i want to cut, nor do they bring light to how this eating disorder is really going. -sigh- i just don't see an end to this, other than you know what.

fuck. how did i get this so far down?

lesbaleine @ 2005-12-09T02:28:00

2005-12-10T19:48:55Z

i'm sorry i have been lacking in writing lately. i am so far gone. the depression is haunting me. my voice sounds so sad. my eyes even sadder. before she goes anywhere my mom asks if i am going to be okay. sometimes she makes me sleep with her in her room to "stay safe." -sigh- i'm really falling apart. i'm getting my wisdom teeth out on monday so i better get some narcotics so i can sleep and escape. fuck i can't do this anymore. i know i'm at my breaking point. i told eva, she's worried. we are all trying to keep me out of the hospital. i don't ever want to go back. i am so lost. broken. nothing is okay. i am trying to look forward to coming to see vanessa. and i am. its just... there is no way i will eat if she's still on the tpn/calorie/nutrient iv... i'm leaving on january 7-25 and fuck i need it to be now. its whats keeping me going. school starts five days after i get back... i hope that will be a good thing and i won't get too stressed out. fuck i'm crying again... i need to go... please don't worry... i'll be ~~fine~~ someday... i hope.

iknowimgoingtobreakiknowiamsolostifeelmyselfdyinginsideiamdyingandnoonesees.

broken ..... girl

2005-12-08T17:20:06Z

i am so depressed.
i am so lost.
i am starving.
i want to cut.
just maybe a little ~~suicidal~~ with no plan
just.... broken...

*cries*

this is my december.

2005-12-06T23:33:36Z

i've mastered feeling nothing.
i know i've died inside.
winter comes with icy snow
and still and still i've cried.

xx i'm so far down xx

[[and no one knows]]

save me...

memoir.

2005-11-24T19:10:26Z

i've been working a lot on my memoir... trying to fill in the gaps, edit things, etc. this latest chapter i'm writing is about the second time i was at brook lane because i never wrote about it. i have left out so much and i'm trying to piece it all together slowly. i want it to be finished. anyway, i thought i'd offer a sneak-peak. please beware, it might trigger. opinions would be nice, if you read it. so here it is... and it's very long.

[Chapter 19: January 2005 - June 2005]

DEATH’S EMBRACE

Winter and depression come together in a haunting rush of death and pain. Every morning I wake and hope that I will die; pray that today will be my last. I dig into my wrists with razorblades, slashing them vehemently, waiting for the impending death I dream will follow when crimson rushes forth. January leaves the air in a whirl of frozen emptiness and long, bitter nights. Soon I am unable to get out of bed in the morning. I am paralyzed, struck down with such a harrowing depression that it takes at least an hour to find the strength to rise. Everything moves in slow motion. I am barely here. At school, I walk through the halls to my classes. They are lonely and empty - like my heart. I slide into my seat as the shrilling bell rings and kids scamper to their classes, sneakers squeaking as they run down the halls to beat the bell and the detention issued if late.
My Advanced Placement Psychology teacher, Mrs. Smallwood, drones on about Freud’s psychosexual stages of development. Her voice is soft, though monotonous at times. She moves her hands in wide gestures. After class one day she asks me to stay behind. I know this well: the concerned look, the briefing of worry, the “how are things going at home?”
“Rebecca, I’ve noticed you haven’t made up any of the work since those two weeks you were absent right before Christmas. I thought I should let you know that you are currently failing my class. Now I don’t know if something’s going on at home (what did I tell you) but I’m wondering if you just don’t care to be in my class. The course load is hard, this is a college-level course-”
I interrupt her. “Mrs. Smallwood, those two weeks I was absent, well, I was in the hospital.”
“Yes, I know that, dear. If you’re sick of course you have time to make up the work. But you’ve had over three weeks now.”
I sigh. “It was a psychiatric hospital.” I say this so quickly that I can hardly believe the words have escaped my mouth.
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“Suicide attempt,” I explain.
A look of sympathy follows. “I’m sorry. Have you talked to someone in guidance about this? I would have given you an extension if I had known. Is there anything I can do?”
I have said too much. My face is flushed and my hands are shaking. “Look, I have to go.” I gather my purse and my books.
“Rebecca, if you ever want to talk…” her voice trails off.
“I’ll have my work for you by Monday.” I say, and leave. Instead of going straight to English I take a detour to the bathroom. I stuff two candy bars in my mouth, (fill the void), stick three fingers down my throat, tickle my vocal chords until I gag, close my eyes as chunks of chocolate and peanut butter come spilling from my mouth into the white of the toilet bowl (purge the filth) and sit down until the dizziness passes. Afterwards, I rid myself of the shame and anger I have and etch two lines into my skin with a rusty blade I have. I clean up the blood, throw the blade into the trashcan, and walk to English. I sit in silence. I have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom because I can’t keep it together. Alone, before the mirror: eyes red-rimmed and watery, knuckles bleeding, body shaking, bloodstains lining the sleeve of my shirt. I look at my reflection; at my hazel eyes that scream of pain. And I feel so broken.

____________________

One week later I am sitting on the bathroom floor in smiley-face boxers that I bought at Wal-Mart and a black oversized T-shirt. My legs are covered in goosebumps: the tiles are cold, some damp from the water Jack neglected to mop up from his shower. I ignore this.
There is a razor in my hand.
The past few days have taken their toll on me. I am drained, exhausted, broken. Nothing matters to me. I am depleted of everything but the desire to end it all.
There is a razor in my hand.
My body is shaking and weak. I have not eaten in days. My bones thrust forth beneath my pale, scarred skin and my stomach is empty, - anorexia screaming take me back into your arms - my longing for starvation renewed and revived after bingeing and purging for the past few weeks. I have gained - then lost - ten pounds. I am disgusted with myself.
There is a razor in my hand.
My mother is at work. Before she leaves she tells me not to hesitate to call if I need anything. She knows I am not in good shape; knows I’m at my breaking point. I do not call her. I don’t want to ruin my plan. Don’t want to let her see me like this.
There is a razor in my hand.
I sit in the bathroom. On the floor. With my razor. My slick, shiny, sharp, beloved razor. I have taken fifteen sleeping pills. There is a razor in my hand. It is on my wrist. I press down hard.

__________________

I slit my wrist horizontally first. Stupid girl, don’t you know how to kill yourself properly? Blood is pooling on the floor - running off my arm in streams, then forming rivulets of red, dripping to the floor in a swimming pool of blood. I cut my right arm exactly sixty-four times. Six years of depression. Four years lost in self-injury. So sick of it all. Make it end. Make it end. I am about to finish the job. I have lost so much blood that I am dizzy. There is no way I can clean up all this with only one hand-towel. My hands are soaked in blood, my nails caked with red.

________________

Jack knocks on the door. I am so started that I drop the razor. It splatters specks of blood onto the walls and the rug when it hits the pool on the floor.
“Are you okay in there?” he says, knocking again.
“Um-” I mop of the blood off the floor frantically. The towel is stained and sopping. I grab a roll of toilet paper from under the sink and rip it off in huge sheets, trying to clean the floor.
“Rebecca?”
I give up and open the door. I am shaking and dizzy. My shirt has streaks of blood on it. The door is ajar and he can see the aftermath of my fifth failed suicide attempt; of my pain painted on the floor, the wall, the sink. His eyes dart to my wrist, to my arm streaked with cuts shallow and deep. The color drains out of his face. I feel terrible. I am a bad sister. Shame floods me.
He goes into Boy Scout mode - wrapping my wrist in thick, white gauze. Blood gets on his fingers. I apologize silently that he has to go through this. I’m sorry, so sorry. He seals the ends of the gauze with packing tape. He wraps my arm from wrist to elbow. We are silent. Nothing is said. I hug him and he gets the portable phone.
“Do you want to call her or should I?”
“I will,” I say. I take the phone. “Mom?” I ask, when she comes to the phone. Her voice is ragged like she’s been running around. Words escape me. “I need you… I need, I think, I think I need to go to the hospital. Itriedtokillmyself,” I mumble. Tears run down my cheeks. I begin to apologize profusely. “I’m so sorry, mommy, I’m so sorry. I just want the pain to stop. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you.”
She assures me not to worry. Within fifteen minutes she is home. She packs a bag hastily. I cry on the bed. I get up and throw away my blood-stained towel and shirt so she doesn’t have to see. I clean the bathroom again and spray it with linen-scented air freshener. I can sense her disappointment, her worry. It kills me.
I hug Jack before I leave. “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice cracks. I start to open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” he assures me. But I can tell he is scared. Of the situation. Of the horror strangling me inside. Of me. Of me.

_____________________

Brook Lane, round two. My legs shake walking with my mom through the hospital doors. It is cold, so cold. I shiver. A mix of shame and fear surge through me. I can’t believe it has come to this again.
All of the same nurses are here. Their eyes glance at me. Back so soon. Back so soon. A few of them shake their heads. I am embarrassed. I am led down the hall to an observation room while I wait with my mom until someone can come and admit me. William passes by. His eyes widen as he sees me. He says only this: Rebecca, why? I hang my head in shame. Lift my gauze-wrapped wrist off my lap. He frowns, says he will see me later on the unit. His frown - a look of disappointment tinted with concern - resonates with me. They hurt and sting. I hate myself.

____________________

There is a new nurse on duty. Her name is Rochelle. She is short, gruff, overweight. I can’t help myself; my eyes stare at her waist, at the rolls of flesh that is her stomach, at the bulge hanging over the button to her pants; at the button that is about to break for her pants are much too tight. She sighs loudly when she talks, seemingly frustrated with having to admit me. This bothers me immensely. Within minutes I decide I dislike her.
“And why are you here?” she asks. She looks at my mother, who in turn stares at me when I don’t answer.
“Rebecca?” she prompts.
“I tried to kill myself,” I whisper.
“What?” she says, annoyed.
“I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF,”
She smirks. “Oh. I see.” (No you don’t.) She goes through the usual questions. Drugs? No. Alcohol? Sometimes. Depressed? Of course. Suicidal? Obviously. Eating disorder? Silence. Eating disorder?
“Yes,” I reply curtly. Rochelle looks at me, her eyes scanning my body. I realize what she is thinking. You don’t look anorexic. She looks at my mother, who confirms it.
This goes on for about thirty minutes or so until Rochelle leaves to get Amanda.
“I hate her,” I say out loud.
“You don’t even know her.”
“She’s a bitch.”
My mom sighs. Amanda comes in and asks my mom to leave while she does my physical search. I ask if she can stay. My mom comes back in the room and sits down. I strip off my clothes and turn in a circle and lift my arms so she can make sure I am bruise and scar free, with the exception of self-inflicted ones.
“Okay, all done.” I start to get dressed. “Leave your clothes on, we’re putting you on C-5.”
“What? Why!” Anger explodes into my chest.
“You’re a danger to yourself. Look at your arms. You’re back after only being home less than a month. This means your previous course of treatment here failed to do the trick. Let’s see if you do better in an individual setting.”
“But-”
“This is not negotiable, your psychiatrist has already signed for it. I’ll go get you a gown.” I curse her under my breath. She returns with a flimsy white gown. I put it on. I am an invalid. A prisoner. A patient. A broken girl. I am nothing but the scars on my arms and the darkness that has invaded my soul.

__________________

My mother hugs me goodbye and leaves. Her embrace is warm. I don’t want to let go. I want to stay in this moment forever. But she leaves. I sit in my gown, freezing, waiting for Amanda to come back. The room is so empty and lonely. I sit with my back facing the door so I don’t have to see anybody; so my face is shielded from the nurses and staff. So they can’t see me cry. I plead silently for them to stay away. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me.
Boredom comes quickly. I count the specks in the carpet. I sing the alphabet forwards and backwards in my head. I tap my fingers on the desk - taptaptap - bumping out a rhythm. Calories swim inside my head. Breakfast, milk - how much have I had? My fingers trace my scars. I start to count my lines of pain. How many times have I brought blade to skin? How many more have faded over the years. I lose track after one hundred and four. This depresses me.
Amanda returns. With her are William and Rochelle. William speaks.
“How are you feeling right now?” His voice is soft with a scratchy twinge every now and then, probably from too many cigarettes.
I shrug my shoulders and bite my lip, trying not to shed more tears. But I can’t hold it in. They run down my face. I wipe them away. They keep coming.
“I bet you feel really lost right now,” William says. He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “We’re going to let you go on the ward and sleep for a while. Your mom told us you haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. Amanda and Rochelle want to go over a few things with you first, then I’ll take you to your room.”
I nod and turn my attention to Amanda, who is holding a file with my name on it, a yellow Brillo pad, and a pen. Rochelle leaves and comes back with a blood pressure gauge and a clipboard. “Rochelle is going to take your vitals and then I’ll talk with you a little about your treatment plan and some rules we’re going to set down,” Amanda states. Rochelle comes over to me, wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, and takes my reading and records it on the clipboard. Her cold fingers take my pulse.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” Rochelle asks.
“Why?”
“Your blood pressure is low and your pulse is weak.”
“Yesterday,” I say.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
“I just told you! Yesterday.”
Rochelle sighs. “Tell me the truth.”
“Fine, Thursday night.”
Her eyebrows arch in a state of frustration and shock. “You haven’t eaten in four days?” She looks at Amanda who stares at me. I smile smugly.
Rochelle writes it down on the clipboard and leaves the room. Amanda sits down in the char facing me and closes the door.
“First off, you’ll have to eat something today, whether it be before or after we let you go to sleep. I’ve talked to Dr. Relicon and she’ll be seeing you first thing tomorrow morning. We’re going to keep you on C-5 until then at least, and maybe longer depending on what your doctor recommends.”
“This isn’t fair!” I exclaim angrily. “I didn’t do anything, why am I being punished and having to sit in this stupid room?”
“Rebecca,” Amanda says, “you’re not being punished. This is for your safety. We’re going to see if you work better by yourself.”
“Isolating me in an empty room and making me do worksheets about shit I already know is pointless.”
Amanda nods and clears her throat. “Well, we’ll see. If you cooperate you’ll get off C-5 quicker. Until then, that’s where you’ll be.” I start to cry. “Hun, it’s not something to get upset about, it’s just to protect you.”
“No one can protect me from myself,” I whisper under my breath. She is silent. The silence fills the room. It suffocates me. I cry.

___________________

Amanda talks to me for a few more minutes and gives me a box of tissues to wipe my tearing eyes. William comes back and leads me down the hall and onto the Adolescent Unit. His arm loosely holds mine as he directs me to my room. I shake and shiver, I am freezing. I ask for extra blankets. He gets them and turns off the light.
“I have to leave your door open,” he says. “We’ll come get you in a few hours. Sleep good.” He smiles and puts the trashcan in front of the door to prop it open. He leaves and I curl up in a ball, trying to keep warm. The cold washes over me even through two blankets. I fall asleep within minutes.

___________________

I am awakened by a knock on my door. It is Lloyd, my favorite male staff member. I sit up in my bed, brush my hair out of my face and manage a weak smile.
“Girl, what are you doin’ back here?”
I don’t say a word. My arms speak for themselves. My eyes do justice for the pain inside. I don’t need to say a thing. He understands. “Not doing so good, are you?” he asks. He flicks the switch on my wall and a warm light bathes my room. I squint and wait for my eyes to adjust. “So what happened?”
I start to shake. Whether is it from the cold or the shame, I don’t know. But I shake and he sees and he gets me another blanket. I am thankful. “The depression got really bad,” I say, my voice quivering. “It’s just so bad…”
“I know, girl, I know. But you gotta fight back. You gotta keep goin’ and striving for your dreams, got to hold on to that light you know is there, keep fumbling through that darkness and know someday you’ll be okay. You know what I mean?” He punches me lightly on the shoulder. He smiles.
I punch him back. “Yeah, I know.”
“Well, you skinny thing, you gotta eat. Rochelle says it’s been four days. Can’t live without food, you know. We have a tray for you in C-5. I know you don’t want to, but sooner or later you’re going to pass out if you don’t start eating. Come on, girl, let’s go,” he says softly. When I stand up, the room spins and I sway, nearly falling. He grabs me by the arm. Steady. “You okay?” he asks, concerned.
“I’m fine,” I say, “just a little dizzy.”
“See, what’d I tell you? ‘Cause you’re not eating. Let’s go eat. I’ll sit with you.” We walk to C-5. I am comforted that I won’t have to eat alone, yet scared that he will be watching. I can get away with more when I am alone. But the thought of eating alone right now terrifies me. I am so tired of being alone.
A pink tray sits on the desk in the C-5 room. The smell of meatloaf is overpowering. It fills my nostrils and makes me gag. I don’t lift up the cover on the tray so Lloyd does it for me. I am frightened at the amount of food before me. I look at the carton of lukewarm milk. Eighty calories. I can drink half. Meatloaf, four bites. Potatoes, two forkful’s, the roll and pats of butter are out of the question. The green beans look feasible. The chocolate custard looks like plastic. I pick up my fork and wait for Lloyd to come back with his food. He gets out his dinner: a garden salad with French dressing, a grilled chicken sub, and a diet cherry coke. He gets salad. Not fair.
“What have they got on the menu tonight?” he asks, peering at my tray. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Yuck, meatloaf.”
“I don’t like meatloaf either. Can I skip it?”
He laughs. “You’re not getting off that easy, kiddo. Eat a couple bites of everything. I’m here for support. I know it’s hard for you. Just try, okay? That’s all I ask. You can do it. I believe in you,” he says. He punches my shoulder lightly - our old familiar gesture. I punch him back.
“I’ll try.”
“Good. That’s good.”
I stab my meatloaf repeatedly, hacking of a small slab which I dissect into bits. Juice filters out between the holes my fork has left. I lift the rubbery meat into my mouth and begin to chew. Juices dribble off my tongue, onto my teeth, down my throat. The smell is putrid. I drink my allotted half a carton of milk. It is warm but helps the meatloaf go down. Two bites of potatoes, all of my green beans. Lloyd is pleased.
“You ate all your green beans, that’s good. How ‘bout a few more bites of that meatloaf?” he smiles proudly.
“No. It’s gross.”
“Yeah, I know. Potatoes then?”
I eat one more bite and put down my fork. I’m done. My stomach hurts, it reacts violently after being fed, having been deprived of substance for days. I feel nauseous. “Can I go lie back down? I don’t feel so good.”
“Let me check with Amanda. It’s only 7:30.”
He is gone awhile. I put the lid back on my tray. The food and its smell is exacerbating my nausea. Lloyd returns with Amanda.
“How much would you say?” Amanda asks Lloyd.
“Maybe forty percent?” he guesses, looking at my tray. I realize they are trying to calculate how much food I have consumed. This infuriates me.
“Well, she didn’t eat her roll, the custard, or much of the meatloaf. Ate the green beans, some of the potatoes, most of the milk. Maybe thirty percent.”
“That is at LEAST sixty!” I proclaim. Lloyd punches my shoulder.
“Calm down girl,” he smiles, “we’re just glad you ate something.”
I sit back in my chair and pick my fingernails. “Can I go to bed now?”
Amanda shakes her head. “Nope, you just got up. We’re going to give you some worksheets to work on, and you can go to bed at nine, like everyone else. I’ll come give you your meds in an hour. Here,” she hands me a folder, “this is some of the things you’ll be working on until you’re off of C-5.”
I take the blue folder in my hand. For the next hour I fill out a goal sheet and read the articles and do the worksheets inside the folder. In big bold letters at the top of the page, are the words “Adolescent Unit: Goal Sheet” I write my name in small, neat print and fill in the spaces with answers.
Why are you at Brook Lane? (I attempted suicide and my depression and cutting are out of control. I also have an eating disorder.)
What are four things you wish to accomplish while you are here? (Feel less depressed, stop cutting, learn better coping mechanisms, be more open about problems.)
What is your goal for tonight? (Tell someone if I am feeling like hurting myself.)
I read articles like “What You Should Do If You Think You Are Depressed” and “When Your Problems Are Out Of Control” and “How To Be More Assertive With Your Parents and Peers.” I have read them all before, but I read them again - anything to pass the time before I can sleep and hide and lose myself in my dreams.
The hour passes slowly. Finally it is time for bed. My sleeping pills that Amanda has given me have kicked in and I am so tired that my eyelids are drooping, the room is fuzzy, my voice is slurred. I am drugged and good to go.
In my room I lie down and tuck the covers under my chin. I huddle under them like a rabbit in its burrow. And I sleep.

____________

Morning. Jason, a nurse, knocks on my door, which is open because I’m on observation, and says it’s time to see my doctor. The thought repulses me. I hide under my sheets. “Not now,” I moan dramatically.
“Yes now. Come on, she’s waiting.” Reluctantly, I get up and walk down the hall in my gown, shaking because I can never get warm. I see Dr. Relicon waiting for me in a C-5 room. She frowns when she sees me. She is wearing a long black skirt with raspberry pin stripes and a cropped white shirt with a matching jacket.
“Miss Rebecca, WHAT are you doing back here?” she stays, seemingly astonished that I am back although she can read my chart and easily find out. But no, she has to hear it from me.
“Suicide attempt,” I say.
“Why?”
“Depression is killing me.”
She lets out a long, prolonged hmmm and writes it down on her notepad. She stares at my arm for an uncomfortably long five minutes. “Let me see that,” she says. I quickly turn my arm over and back. “Well you sure did a number on yourself.”
“Guess so.”
“How are things at home?” (What is with everybody and this question?)
“Fine. It’s me that’s messed up.”
She raises her eyebrows - sign of conformation. “Do you think you are subconsciously trying to get your parents back together by cutting yourself and trying to kill yourself and landing in the hospital so much?”
My mouth gapes open. Literally. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“I think you know.”
“No, I don’t. And no, I know my parents will never get back together. I cut myself and have tried to kill myself before because of this depression that won’t leave. Your theory is completely misguided.”
Hmmm. “I see. Well, I am going to increase your Lamictal and keep everything else the same. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Be productive.”
“Wait, when can I get off C-5?” I am desperate.
She inches towards the door. “When you’re ready.”

______________

I pick at my cereal for breakfast and get a disappointed “10 percent” from Amanda. I don’t care. I do worksheets and read articles and write in my journal and cry for the next five hours until lunch. Before eating I am supposed to see the medical doctor. He is a short, rosy-cheeked, stout man who is middle-eastern with poor English, and thus pronounces my name Reh-beek-ahh. I correct him, but he can’t seem to get the hang of it. I am too exhausted and emotionally drained to correct him further. So I sit, Reh-beek-ahh and all, and get poked and prodded and made to say “ahh” when he jabs a tongue-depressor down my throat. He listens to my heart, takes my blood pressure and pulse, taps on my knees, presses on my stomach, looks at my arms.
“You look like a tiger, no? With all of those markings on your arms.”
I am torn between wanting to cuss him out and bursting into fits of insane laughter. Luckily Amanda saves me from this madman and announces that lunch is here. Oh joy!
“How was the your meeting with your psychiatrist and the doctor just now?” she asks, genuinely interested.
I state that it was okay (ha) and that the doctor called me Reh-beek-ahh. We both have a laugh over that one.
“Feeling hungry?” she asks. After getting an emotionless no, she continues on. “You only ate 10% at breakfast this morning. I know how much of a struggle this is for you, but you need to eat more for lunch. If you don’t eat 40% or more then we’ll have to set a required sixty percent at each meal.”
I open my mouth to protest, but decide to drop the issue. I don’t want the percentage to go higher. She leads me to a C-5 room where the dreaded pink tray sits, waiting to be consumed. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Amanda lifts the top off.
“Mmmm, chicken, you like chicken don’t you?” she smiles widely, pats me on the back. It’s okay, I mumble. It amazes me at how much food is crammed onto one tray. Amanda leaves me to my hour of hell, and I stare at the food in shock. Mozzarella-covered chicken breast, rice, broccoli, milk, cottage cheese with peach sauce. At least the milk is cold this time. I drink this first. All of it. I lift my work and place with my rice. I eat all of my broccoli and a few spoonfuls of the peach sauce. Amanda bounces back into the room to check on me.
“How’re you doing?” she asks. Her eyes survey my tray. “Eat your chicken or your rice and then you’re done. I’m glad you ate your broccoli and drank your milk.”
“But I’ve already eaten forty percent,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. Amanda looks at my tray again.
“All right, just eat the rice,” she says, compromising.
I shove four bites of rice into my mouth and spit them into a napkin when Amanda leaves to go get my folder of worksheets. I guess that’s good enough, she says. I know you’re upset. You did a good job. She plops the folder on my desk. I studiously do my work for the next few hours. I write pages in my paper diary, spilling out my pain, insecurities and fears - documenting my time in the hospital. Before I know it the day is over. I get my Dixie cup of meds, and fall asleep soon after.

____________________

I knew it would happen sooner or later. Unit Lockdown. I awake to an unfamiliar silence. The usual sounds of breakfast lineup are not there. There are no fists rapping on doors, knuckles loud, “time to eat, line up, single file!” I crawl out of bed, come to the doorway, peek out. The doors to the unit are closed, which is only present during a lockdown. Fits of anger and screams burst out suddenly - shrill screams of the deranged and distressed. Other heads peek out their doorways, eyes wide, what’s going on, they whisper to each other, seemingly enthralled by the coming of a crisis. The sounds of footsteps come and we all go back inside our rooms and jump into our beds. This is something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. William goes from room to room, telling us to shut our doors. Amanda, Lloyd, Jason, and Beth all instruct us to work on our goal sheets until it is over. This is a lockdown, they say. Everyone in your rooms. Lockdown.

__________________

According to Lloyd, who comes in my room, trouble broke out on the adults and children’s ward; patients anger and madness on display. Dementia-ridden, schizophrenic, voices and cries of the adults are loud and piercing, though words incoherent and jumbled. Wailing children cry as they are carted off to the C-5 rooms. For once the adolescents aren’t the ones in trouble, as usually the case. We are the watchers. Breakfasts on pink trays arrive from the cafeteria in a metal case. I do not touch mine. I hide most of it in the bottom of my trashcan, which I plan to empty later. Amanda comes in my room.
“Rebecca, all the C-5 rooms are occupied so you and Erin have to come to isolation room so we can monitor you. I’m sorry, but that’s our only option right now.”
I shake. I have never been to the isolation room before, only heard of its terrors. I am led to a room I have never seen before. There is nothing but walls and floor - everything is carpeted, even the walls. Solitary confinement. For the crazy people. I am here. And I am terrified.
Different nurses and staff members take turns patrolling the two isolation rooms, watching us like hawks eye their prey. The other girl - I later find her name is Erin - haves what could be loosely called a nervous breakdown. She begins to cry loudly, deafening screams, shrill and piercing. They echo off the carpeted walls. I put my hands over my ears and bury my head in my lap. I want to disappear. Disappear.

_____________________

Everything seems to calm down within an hour. Everyone is ushered off to group therapy to “process their emotions about lockdown but me and Erin. No one notices I have thrown away my breakfast. Dr. Relicon comes to my room and asks to meet with me. I sigh. I am sick and tired of talking to this woman who refuses to let me off of C-5. We talk for a short period: her inquiring about what led to my suicide attempt, me answering while tears cloud my eyes. She tells me I will be off C-5 by dinner time. I rejoice. She looks tersely at me, as if saying don’t get too excited, I can easily put you right back where you were.
“You’re going to meet your therapist today,” she says. “Her name is Diana.”
“So I don’t have to be with Kelly again, right?”
She smiles weakly. “Yep.”
I practically scream. “Thank you so much! I hate Kelly.”
She laughs. “See you later. Be productive in therapy so you don’t wind up here again in two weeks.”
At two, I go to meet my therapist. She is tall, thin, brown-eyed, and brunette. Her smile is kind, her features soft, her skin is milky and smooth. Her voice is calm, pleasing, and comforting. I like her immediately. I feel safe. Diana talks about my depression that doesn’t seem to respond to treatment, my suicide attempt, and how badly I have been self-injuring. She doesn’t even flinch when I show her my arm, cut and scarred from wrist to elbow.
“You are hurting so badly, Rebecca. I want to help you feel differently. I really do.” She is so sincere. “I can see your pain on your wrists and in your eyes. Tell me why. Let down your walls. Take as much time as you need. And it’s okay to cry. (At this, I burst into tears.) Do you feel safe?”
I nod earnestly, and start talking.

____________________

“Tell me about your suicide attempt,” she says. “If you’re not ready, that’s okay. We can talk about something else if you want. This is your time. You can choose what you want to talk about. I’m here for support, to listen, to help.” Her smile is too much. It is so loving. No one has ever looked at me like that besides my parents and Vanessa. I cry again.
“I was so depressed. I don’t know, it’s so hard to describe what I go through because my perception of things is so distorted. It felt like my whole life was detached and broken. So shattered. I couldn’t fix anything. I was so frustrated and angry, God, I was so sad and I just didn’t know how to deal with it except to turn it onto myself. Like I always do. I started cutting and cutting.” I motion to my arm. “As the blood was pooling on the floor all I could think about was what would happen the next morning. I would wake up and be faced with stinging cuts on my arms and have to face what I try so hard to run away from. The pain, my family, the hurt, the things people have said, this eating disorder, the loneliness. I don’t know to deal with anything so I run away and hurt myself because at least that seems to take me away from it sometimes.”
She nods empathetically. “I can see why you hurt yourself. Everything is too much to face, especially with all of it coming at you once. You reach within yourself to try to find a way to cope but nothing is there except what you’ve always known: self-destruction. It’s your vice, your escape. And it keeps happening because you’re without the proper coping mechanisms.”
“So what do I do?”
“You find other ways to release. You start working through the pain you’ve had. The memories you want to forget, the things you run from. You talk and you release it and you just try, try, try.”
“But I am trying.”
She shifts positions in her chair. “I know you are, sweetheart. And that’s great. That’s a start. What do you like to do?”
I am caught off guard. “Huh?”
“What kind of things do you like to do in your spare time? What really brings you joy, puts you at ease? Don’t say cutting,” she jokes. “Look back, think. What have you done that is rewarding and safe?”
This is easy. “I love to write,” I say, smiling. Immediately I am enthusiastic, alive. “I’m writing this memoir, about all the things I’ve gone through. I want to help other people. I want to have it published,” I gush. “God, it’s what keeps me going, it really is. It’s my release. It’s… it’s my life, my passion, my everything. I would die if I couldn’t write.”
Diana stands up and hugs me. She is warm and her hair smells like rose petals. I don’t want to let go. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. The look on your face just now was absolutely amazing. Your eyes lit up, you smiled, your cheeks flushed with passion. That’s it. That’s your release. Writing is such a powerful tool of self-expression and release and creativity.”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “It’s what has kept me from killing myself all these times, despite my attempts. It’s just… sometimes I don’t know what to write, how to word things. Sometimes the emotions are too much to deal with. Sometimes I physically can’t make myself sit down and write.”
“But sometimes you can.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But nothing. That is great. I am so proud of you. I know you have it in you to do this, to fight this self-proclaimed war against yourself.”
I smile. “Maybe.”
We got lost in discussion. Before I know it, it is four o’clock. We have been talking for two hours.
“Well, you have dinner to go to, missy.”
I cringe. “Gross.”
“That’s something I want to talk about with you next time,” she says. “For now I have to go meet with another patient, but try to eat something, even if it’s only a couple bites. We have a meeting with your dad tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to meeting him. You and I will also have another session tomorrow. I have some things I want to give you.”
“Okay, see you later. And Diana?”
“Yes?” she asks.
“Thank you.”

death seems clearer through bloodshot eyes...

2005-11-14T15:48:43Z

it's been said before: i am sick and tired of being sick and tired and tired and tired and tired and i am not sleeping and it is literally driving me insane. i am now addicted to tylonoel pm and i am going through trazodone withdrawals and i am shaking badly and hearing things occasionally and my heart races and i get very dizzy, so fucking dizzy that i grip the counter at the register at work so i don't fall flat on my face. it wasn't so bad yesterday but the last week has been hell. i haven't taken my trazodone in about two weeks. i have two more weeks until i see dr.terry and i don't know if i can last that long. my eyes burn and my head pounds because i am so sleep deprived. i have tried crushing my pills and mixing it with yogurt and peanut butter and all that shit and it doesn't work because, quite frankly, i am addicted. i have been addicted to it since i started taking it back in tenth grade. i have been on this medication for two years. i was sick of puking them up every night so i just stopped taking it. i can't believe the fact that i specifically called dr.terry last week and told her, almost in tears, that i am not sleeping and i'm puking up my meds, and can't swallow the trazodone and she said "there's nothing i can do, try mixing it with something." what. the. fuck. i can't work like i am and not sleep. i can't function and not sleep. true, i have slept some with tyloenol pm but even that doesn't give me a good full eight hours or so that i need to be able to drag myself through work. i am basically working full time right now and denying my depression and my eating disorder and ohimfinereally and everyone thinks so and my mom says i seem happy and inside i'm dying and i hate i hate i hate this all. when i go to therapy on wednesday i am going to see if there can possibly be an emergency psychiatrist appointment so i can see someone - i don't care who - and just feel rested and okay. i am so fucking worn out. and the adult psychiatrists are sooo overbooked and it is crazy and i know it's not dr.terry's fault that i can't see her enough but shit, i am falling apart here and i can't work without sleeping and i am so upset and depressed and no one knows, no one fucking knows. i am ready to take whatever fucking medication they want. anything. please. just let me sleep just help me. i don't understand. why is my depression so resitant to treatment? why? i counted the other day - i have been on seventeen different medications in the last two and a halgf years. seventeen. you think something would do the trick. but no. medication is not a cure, i know that. but something, please, something, please give me a break, a reprieve, this is no way to live and yes therapy helps but i feel like i am lost and dying and there is nothing to look forward to and fuck i just can't do it sometimes. today is my half a year anniversary of not cutting and i just want to throw it all away because i am so fucking frustrated with all of this shit. i am working too much and i just want to quit. but no. my parent's wouldn't have that, because i'd be "giving up" "succumbing to my illness" "overreacting". yes, i could ask for my hours to be cut back, but that is nearly impossible since the holidays are coming (basically here now) and work is busy as all hell. like long lines and bitchy customers and no way in hell and i getting off. i just want it to be january so i can see my faceyo and start school which i am excited about and just work two days a week. i have today off and wednesay and thursday which is good but i am working every weekend and barely get to see my dad and it is just sad. it's good money and yes, i need it to pay rent and everything else, but still. i have basically lost my ssi money which doesn't matter since i'm making more than they pay me anyways, but i'm worried about losing my medicaid so i am going to call today and find out. i don't think it will happen, but some people have brought it to my attention and i need to find out and i am so sick and tired of being like this. a fucked up girl. a mental patient. a depressed anoretic and all that shit. i try to recover and it doesn't work. i go to therapy and swallow (try to anyways) my meds and i talk and i cry and i write and i try and i try and i try and i swear to god i'm trying and it doesn'ts eem to help and i am ready to say lock me up forever throw me in the looney bin because i'm hopeless. i'm so fucking lost and no one sees... no one sees me and this pain i'm in. and i just want to throw everything away...

i'm sorry for complaining but i needed to get it out. i'm going to go back to my bed and od on tyloenol pm and hope i sleep and cry because no one in my family except my mom and dad even remembers it's my half-year anniversary probably and that took so much work and FUCK. i hate myself. death seems clearer througfh bloodshot eyes - that;'s what silverchair said. and what do i say? i understand. i fucking understand.

there is no serenity here.

2005-11-13T00:57:03Z

x----posted to od

due to work, i haven't updated in a while and i apologize. here's my update:

work:

i'm working too much for my liking (though financially it is kicking ass) and i am getting really stressed out. twice i have broke down crying. the busiet most stressful time for retail is coming up. and i am scared i won't be able to handle it. yesterday a man threw candy in my face because i wouldn't exchange it for another one after his son had already licked it. a fucking woman bitched at me for twenty minutes because i politely told her that no, her lovely fucking candle seyt was not on sale. of course, it's MY fault. right. twice now i've been ready to quit. but i know i need the money that i should be saving for college, life, seeing vanessa in the summer, etc. plus i like my co-workers, except fat pat, but sometimes i really don't know. my parents would have a heart attack if i quit. but you're doing so WELL, they say. well. well my ass, i'm fucking falling apart and even that is an understatement. in good news, though, my last paycheck was $404. that means they are going to discontinue my ssi money, although i'm hoping it will still keep my medicaid so i can have therapy and medication and doctor's appointments covered. speaking of that, my case is up for review soon. -sigh- just more paperwork to fill out and things to get done.

school:

on wednesday i went to fcc, the community college and registered for my classes. first i met with a counselor and class advisor named debby. debby was a really sweet person, very caring and understanding towards my disabilities. we talked, at length, about my mental problems, my vision impairment, what classes i wanted to take, etc. she went over the requirements about what i need to take to get my associate's degree in psychology, and that will probably take me two to three years, she said. after we talked we went over some classes. i wanted to take a class called serial killers: psychosocial perspectives, but it was full. so i'm taking english 101, psychology 101, math 91 (pre-algebra), and health. honestly, i am a bit afraid and worried about how i'll deal with it all, but i'm excited, too. i miss the structure of my day. i miss school in the fact that i could express myself in art, writing, could learn about interesting things. believe me, i didn't miss the schoolwork or homework, save for the essays, or the tests or the math or anything having remotely anything to do with math. but i miss some of it. so i'm excited. and honestly, i just want a fucking place to go and be alone and huddgle in the corner of the cafeteria and write with out anyone coming in and talking to me or asking this and that and blah blah blah. i really want to do this; i want to do well in college. i always have. i really just want to... i don't know... succeed. but success is frightening to me. i'm scared. and that's why i doubt myself and my capabilities. fear. classes start january 30 so i have time to wait. which is good, cause i'd hate to go to school and work this much simultaneously. i talked to my manager at work and he said that since my job is seasonal and i would have to leave in january when i go to school that they were going to let me go anyway, but i love michaels so i asked maybe if i could work just on the weekends and he said that would probably not be a problem. so that looks appealing. school, a little work, and time for myself. if only i could escape out of my hellish life, then i'd be set. :P

depression:

it has been particularly bad lately - especially with the changing tide of the seasons and the weather and the cold nothingness that haunts me restlessly and the night that grows darker by five and the pain, the pain, the pain inside of me that hurts so badly and i just don't know WHY. for all my life i have not known why. only that it's there. and it hurts so fucking bad. sometimes it hurts so bad i walk down the aisles at work, eyes darting around, heart pounding in my chest. down the first aisele, first row, craft section. across from scrapbooking. and there they are: pretty x-acto knifes, sharp and silver in their pristine rows. refillable balades, rotary cutters for sewing, razor sharp scissors. so much temptation. and it's all i have not to give in, buy them, run to the bathroom, and not press down. it hurts... mommy, you'll never know how bad i hurt inside.

also, there is the drugs. i mean, my medication. i saw dr.terry last when she threw my bipolar diagnosis at me and fucked with my meds. that was two weeks ago. during those two weeks, among other things, i have thrown up my pills every single night because i cannot swallow the 300 mg trazodone pills she has prescribed me. every night i throw up white pills into the bathroom sink. every night i do not sleep. i am not joking or exaggerating when i say that i have literally not slept in 12 days. i am running high on a sense of insomnia-induced mania and an eating disorder rollercoaster of emotions. i left a message at theray on wednesday for dr.terry to call me immediately, that it was an emergency. she never called so i called later, frantic, crying that i wasn't sleeoing and could she please prescribe the 100 mg pills so i can swallow them. break them in half, she says. i can't. they are a chalky pill. they dissolve in my mouth. i can't do it. i throw them up every night. god knows if i'm throwing up the other medication i take. probably so. she says she cannot fill the prescription again until the next time i see her until two weeks. mix it with some applesauce she replies, voice flat. what the fuck. i don't eat applesauce, and no, bitch, i've tried that with every food imaginable and it still won't happen. give me my fucking meds. i am ready to say fuck it and switch sleeping pills. maybe ambien. i want seroquel back. i want my topamax back from forever ago. i want my life back. i want me back. i want me back...

cutting:

my half-year anniversary with out cutting is on monday. i don't know how i feel about this. i am excited, but scared. it has been so hard to deal with things with out cutting. but i've done it. of course, self-destruction hs manifested itself in many other ways... starving, purging, spending entirely too much money, burning, etc. so i don't know... day 182 (half-year) is right around the corner. and damn, i'm speechless. quit forever, run back grateful. quit forever, run back grateful. i can't help but say i would pick the latter. run back grateful...

eating disorder:

what a bundle of joy this has been the last two weeks. boy, i tell you. since my mothers little comments that have scarred me completely, i have either not eaten or binged and purged into oblivion. my weight has dropped five pounds, increased seven, dropped three, and now remains the same. fucking fantastic. i love this. i really do. *shakes head* can't you tell? i don't even want to talk about it. this disorder has ruined my life. ruined it. or what was left of my life. ha. ha ha fucking ha ha. let's not go there. not tonight. let's just say this: i am not doing well. with anything. at all. at all...

i had two poems to post here but i lost them. they were both very weird, completely unlike me or my writing style. one of them actually involved a husband and a wife, a relationship, *gasp* not just me and "a broken girl that falls and dies", although, of course, knowing me, there was suicide in it. but it had a happy ending. when i find it you'll all be privy to my bizzare writing.

enough... very tired, going to try to sleep.

fuck you for killing me with your words.

2005-11-08T01:35:15Z

oh. my. god. my mother has just gotten on my last nerve. i can't believe her. i really can't. so i'm in the kitchen yesterday morning, dehydrated and lips cracked and bleeding as they always are from my meds, and drinking ice cold water to try to melt away the pain on my lips. i am wearing a shirt that makes me look huge seeing as i could fit into it in fourth grade. but i slept in it, so i wasn't expecting her to see me like that. but she walks into the kitchen. i mutter under my breath: this shirt makes me look fat. and this is what happens: she says "i know eva told me i sholden't answer you when you say you're fat, but i have something to say this time, and, well, i'm just going to say it." i brace myself, hold my breath. and she lets me have it with the words that kill. "i think you would be happier with yourself if you lost some weight and ate healthier." translation: you are fat. stop eating. you are disgusting. my mouth literally gapes open. what? she goes on. tells me i could stand to lose a few. how much? it doesn't matter. how much? fifteen or twenty. fuck i am fat as hell. fat fat fat. i start pacing. why are you doing that? i'm angry. fat. did i trigger you? YES.

i hate her, damn it.

in better news, my half a year cut-free anniversary will be next monday. i'm not sure how i feel about this. in a way i am overjoyed and proud of myself. but in another i am scared i will fall. i know i'm not better mentally and that i have been substituting cutting with my eating disorder. it is so terrifying.

i'm off to scrapbook and make christmas cards...

manic mondays singing you to sleep.

2005-11-02T05:22:16Z

my psychiatrist appointment on friday turned out like shit. apparently i am now bipolar. ha. ha. ha. she increased my trazodone (now 900 mg) took me off seroquel, added geodon (180 mg) and increased lamictal (now 150 mg) my mom is so excited and enthralled about all of this because "maybe this will be the right combination!" and yet i am so angry because of the bipolar diagnosis. that's fucking bullshit. i am NOT manic nor have i ever been. yes, my depression is treatment-resistive, severe, and chronic, but it is no fucking bipolar. unipolar, maybe. eva & i decided it was chronic severe major depressive disorder and yes, thats in the dsm-iv. i hate my psychiatrist. i hope she chokes on her coffee. *im so mean*

cut-free days = 169.

working SOOO much. next week i have 39 hours.

depression = red flag bad. :(

therapy tomorrow.

going to fcc to take placement tests and hopefully talk to sven, the disability coordinator to plan my schedule and hopefully get things rolling.

er previews look awesome for thursday.

im having stomach pain.

everyday at work my vision is fuzzy, i'm dizzy, and things move very fast. its the meds. dont know which one since they were all increased but whatever. its getting hard to focus with all the dizziness/blurriness, the fuzzy feeling. FUCK MEDS!!!!

went to see SAW II. OH MY GOD IT KICKED SOO MUCH ASS IT WAS SOO GREAT AND DAMN WAS IT GOOD WITH A TWIST AT THE END!!

megan i hope you had a happy birthday and got my message i left you. need stamps so when i have them your package is in the mail. i love you.

love you too, faceyo.

got to go. my stomach hurts too much to sit.

x come x as x you x are x

2005-10-27T18:56:52Z

i'm listening to nirvana. kurt cobain is a god. mmmmm like walking sex.
anyway.
vanessa is home... yay! i love you baby.
i ended up giving my mom the razor blade.
then the very next day i bought an x-acto knife at work.
stupid girl.
gave it to eva on wednesday.
still don't know if it was the best thing to do.
i want to cut still.
it's died down a little.
164 days bitches.
but the anorexia haunts me even more now.
take me back into your arms and watch me waste away.
work today. 5-9. get paid on saturday. i owe my mom $72 and then another $200 on the first of the month for rent.
happy early birthday to megan. your present/card are on their way.
kyle, dude, where is my sublime mix cd? i want to hear it!!
psych appointment on friday.
don't want to see her.
she never helps anyways.
saw 2 comes out on friday night.
i am beyond stoked. the first one kicked ass.
my depression is indescribably bad.
like... really fucking bad.
i am starting to revise/edit/add to my book/memoir.
my uncle knows someone in new york who might publish me if/when i'm finished.
this keeps me going in that aspect of writing.
that would be a dream.
so, in all, things are weird.
a few things are good.
more are bad.
i am lost in my cliche world of depression.
and i'm sad. so sad.
i want to be held.
[someone hold me]
but i have to get ready for work.
boo on jobs.
tired, so tired... of this all.
haven't eaten today.
feels good.
have to go.
sorry for all this.
~~you'll never know how bad i feel for being what i am.~~

there's a razor in my room.

2005-10-21T23:16:37Z

there's a razor in my room.
here. on the desk.
so close, so close.
new and shiny and oh so sharp.
tested with my finger.
oh i want to want to want to.
i was looking for scissors to scrapbook with.
innocent enough.
then i see it in the drawer where the computer is downstairs.
why. why do we have this.
why is it here when they know i hurt myself.
why. why. why. why the fuck why.
so now it's here.
because i couldn't stop.
i am too weak.
i couldn't help myself.
i couldn't walk away.
there's a razor in my room.
here. on my desk.
near my hand.
so close. so close.
here. on my desk.
want to want to want to.
blood would be so nice.
swift motions, nice and deep.
crimson all around.
bleed and bleed.
make the pain fade.
make it go away please.
please please please go away.
don't haunt me anymore.
i can't take this anymore.
there's a razor in my room.
here. on my desk.
so close. so close.
just one time, just once.
once i start i can't stop.
again and again and again.
please please please.
one time one time one time.
~~158~~ doesn't matter anymore.
there's a razor in my room.
here. on my desk.
so close, so close.
it's in my hand.
it's in my hand.
it's in my hand.
everythings so dark and fuzzy.
can't feel much.
slipping...
there's a razor in my room.
here, on my desk.
here, in my hand.
here, on my wrist.
here, please let this end.
end................

october sky robs me of breath.

2005-10-20T19:00:14Z

not much to say.
therapy yesterday. my family is fucked up. possibly even more so than me.
eva & mom still want me to go inpatient.
ha fucking ha. yeah right.
job's going okay.
haven't cut in 157 days. want to. bad.
today's my half birthday.
eating is hell. purging.. restricting.. fat..
depression = death.
enough.

because she's bittersweet.

2005-10-17T21:53:34Z

don't really have anything to say, just wanted to update this to let you know i am alive even if i don't want to be.

when words come, i will write.

until then, i love you guys and i'm trying so hard... i really am...

when hope fades into the night.

2005-10-13T01:47:28Z

x-posted in od.

it's taken a long time to formulate words to type out an entry. words - they have become a foreign entity, and it is had to form sentences, to put into words what i have been feeling and experiencing. i think i have something now:

the feelings of depression i feel have been paramount; undescriblably bad. like, suicidal bad. no, i am not planning to kill myself, but i can't deny the presences of thoughts and ideas. i can't deny how bad i have crashed and how prevalent the darkness is. how the pain seeps through every pore of my skin and burns and scratches at the surface of my skin, begging for a razorblade to cut and feel the sting of crimson release. oh, how i want to give in. some how i have resisted. yet, in writing this, i am not so sure this will continue. three people who self-injure (two cutters, one burner) have been in my check-out line at work in the three weeks that i've worked there. sadly, one girl purchased an x-acto knife. her eyes were sad. mine are sad. i want to cut. i want it so bad and it is so hard and i don't know if or how i am going to make it. i just don't know. these are not simply doubts and hesitations, but anxiety that runs through my mind in such chaos that i can not think of anything other than the imminent self-destruction i fear will soon follow in the wake of this depression.

i need to deal with my eating disorder. well, not deal, yet rather talk about it. it is here and strong and it is not going away. pretending i am fine is doing nothing. let me get it out in the open and just say it: i am struggling. i am restricting and purging. i do not have the strength or energy to exercise. i do not have a state identification card to purchase diet pills. i do not have the ability to fake a smile and pretend i am fine anymore. because i'm not okay at all. i see myself falling into the same disordered thought processes and behavior as i was at the depths of my anorexia. my thinking pattern and distorted thoughts and imge of myself now and then is strikingly and frighteningly the same. and this scares me.

therapy tonight went well. we explored a few things we never had before, one being my diagnosis. as i am beginning the admitting process to the community college in frederick, i met with a counselor and the disability service coordinator. his name is sven and he is a really nice person. obviously, i have a permanent and severe vision disability that limits me in different aspects. due to this, they will waive my tuition, which is an enormous financial relief and one that is much needed since both my family and i are definitely not capable or have the resources to afford college what so ever. in accordance with this, sven has been informed by the department of rehab services that i also have an emotional disability. i am supposed to have a psychiatric evaluation and report from eva or dr.terry, so in therapy tonight eva and i focused on my diagnosis, and establishing one that reflects the true situation i am in mentally as of present. previously, my diagnosis was clounded by diagnosis marked with "not otherwise specified" at the end. eva and i both acknowledge that, as much as we don't like putting labels on things, that "nos" is just a way of herding me into a category that my psychiatrists didn't want to deal with because she is a)lazy and b)incompetent and c)has a heavy caseload with little time to devote individual attention to patients. that being said, eva said we should review the dsm-iv and get a better diagnosis clarified, because not only was my previous one incorrect, but my anxiety disorder was not even documented, and sven needs to have it written down for my file because he said he can provide accomodations in relation to testing separately (test anxiety) and not having me do speeches orally in class, and rather having me do them indivually with the professor/teacher (severe public speaking anxiety and social phobia.) so, as of now, my diagnosis stands at:

Major Depressive Disorder, chronic & severe, no psychotic feautures
Social Anxiety Disorder
Anorexia Nervosa, purging type
Primary Insomnia

so that's how i stand. basically, i'm fucked up. but we all knew that. :) i don't want to focus on the diagnosis too much. but i guess it was good that we settled it all. my mom is calling me for dinner, so i need to go think up an excuse of why i can not consume the meal she has prepared. i leave you with an apology for my abscence and withdrawal, and my essay i wrote for my placement test to be admitted to frederick community college as a writing test to determine class placement. (topic: state whether you agree or disagree on a quote written by hemingway). eva made a copy of it for her file because, she says, it is "beautifully written and i should believe it even if i made it up." so, i leave you with my thoughts and words, and the hope that you all are doing well.

"When it is dark enough you can see the stars." These few words, spoken by Helen Keller, were whispered to me by a close friend on a cold, December night when I found myself struggling to make it through another day; to see through the pain and grow stronger in its wake. Ernest Hemingway's quote, "At some point in everyone's life, the world breaks us; but some, some grow stronger in the broken places," is strikingly parallel to that of Helen Keller's, and relates, almost eerily, to my own experience. Therefore, in retrospect and in present, I concur with Hemingway's statement.

I believe what Hemingway was trying to convey is that, even through depair and times of heartache and sorrow, there are some that rise above their demons, face them, and ultimately grow stronger in the challenges they've faced, and the obstacles they've overcome. For example, in recent world affairs, such as the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, people and families of those afflicted have gone through unspeakable depths of turmoil, yet have risen above the darkness and found the courage to survive and hold on to the little fragments of hope they still have.

I, too, have fought this fight of pain and grief, have looked in the mirror and saw no hope, have searched through the darkness in search of a light that failed to be. With hope wavering and time passing, I thought myself to be destined for an eternity of melancholy days and lonely nights, yet I grasped at the fragile strings of faith that time would heal all wounds. It took me many tears and strength I didn't know I had to see that I was not merely a broken girl caught in the throes of depression, but a resilient being that, despite doubts and fears, could rise above all else.

Through tragedy and pain, death and loss, some fail to find the strenth to rise above, for they are so immersed in the struggles that they face and the hurdles they must jump that they can not see a better day. However, there are others who experience the same suffering, yet, regardless of their troubles, have the ability to hold on to hope no matter how small or far away it seems. These people, as Hemingway implies, undoubtedly have been broken, but possess the unwavering courage to rise above the ruins and gathet the strength to mend those broken pieces.

"At some point in everyone's life, the world breaks us; but some, some become strong in the broken places." Hemingway's words resonate with hope and understanding that was does not kill us makes us stronger, and that, if nothing else, when light is lost and faith is gone, do not give up. A friend once said to me: sweep a pathway through your dreams, the world is waiting at your feet. And that, in all its entity, keeps me going. When times get hard, I know I am not broken. I am merely piecing together what is already there, knowing some day everything will come together.

do not give up, my beautiful girls. (and kyle and alex, of course.)

when it hurts too much to breathe.

2005-10-11T23:12:02Z

nothing to say except i'm not okay.

this. is. my. breaking. point.

2005-10-02T02:02:13Z

this is my breaking point.
no more.
no more.
no more.
fuck it i said fuck it.
sorry, but it hurts so much
so much.
so much.
~~cutcutcutcutcutcutcut~~