Addict: Setting the World on Fire
Entry 2
Dear Someone,
I have a lot of scars. They itch a lot. I don’t know why, though. Most of my scars are superficial and white, but I have four groups of red and raised ones.
My first and oldest R+R scar in on my shoulder; it’s the worst one I have.
My second is on my left forearm; it’s only half the size of what the wound was.
My third consists of three. It’s on my right forearm. That group: the wound was gory and landed me with a terrible fever. Mom thought I had the flu until Sergeant Major reported me to her.
My fourth group is my most bizarre. I carved the word ‘KNIVES’ into my right upper thigh, when I was finished cutting it looked like something out of a horror film. You know, when the bad guy writes words into the victim’s body for the police to find. I think I wrote the word knives because they’re always there to help me. They make everything better.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, Someone. I kept on twitching and thrashing. I wanted to demolish my headboard. Break it into pieces. Or go into the bathroom and punch the mirror and sleep on the glass. I would have, but all the noise would have aroused mom and dad, and they would have pulled a parental act. I wish they would just let me deal with this on my own. I can get all the scars sanded off, anyway.
I wouldn’t kill myself, just bleed.
Someone, do you know why I like writing letters? I don’t. Maybe you like writing letters too, and you could tell me why. I don’t talk to people too much about what’s on my mind. I use to. I use to talk to William a whole lot, but then he got a girlfriend and his parents got arrested. We’re still friends, but not like we use to be.
Now I really don’t talk to anyone about anything deep. Except my therapist. But I only see him on a bi-weekly basis. And it’s awkward. I don’t prefer the therapy, but I know I need it, I guess. The therapy doesn’t change anything, or make anything more clear to me. Basically, it’s go there, talk, hear something I may or may not have already known, and go home. But I guess it’s working… or has the potential to. It all has to do with psychological clarity.
So now I’m just writing to you, Someone, even though you are no one. But, like I said, I live in my head.
I have a lot of scars. They itch a lot. I don’t know why, though. Most of my scars are superficial and white, but I have four groups of red and raised ones.
My first and oldest R+R scar in on my shoulder; it’s the worst one I have.
My second is on my left forearm; it’s only half the size of what the wound was.
My third consists of three. It’s on my right forearm. That group: the wound was gory and landed me with a terrible fever. Mom thought I had the flu until Sergeant Major reported me to her.
My fourth group is my most bizarre. I carved the word ‘KNIVES’ into my right upper thigh, when I was finished cutting it looked like something out of a horror film. You know, when the bad guy writes words into the victim’s body for the police to find. I think I wrote the word knives because they’re always there to help me. They make everything better.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, Someone. I kept on twitching and thrashing. I wanted to demolish my headboard. Break it into pieces. Or go into the bathroom and punch the mirror and sleep on the glass. I would have, but all the noise would have aroused mom and dad, and they would have pulled a parental act. I wish they would just let me deal with this on my own. I can get all the scars sanded off, anyway.
I wouldn’t kill myself, just bleed.
Someone, do you know why I like writing letters? I don’t. Maybe you like writing letters too, and you could tell me why. I don’t talk to people too much about what’s on my mind. I use to. I use to talk to William a whole lot, but then he got a girlfriend and his parents got arrested. We’re still friends, but not like we use to be.
Now I really don’t talk to anyone about anything deep. Except my therapist. But I only see him on a bi-weekly basis. And it’s awkward. I don’t prefer the therapy, but I know I need it, I guess. The therapy doesn’t change anything, or make anything more clear to me. Basically, it’s go there, talk, hear something I may or may not have already known, and go home. But I guess it’s working… or has the potential to. It all has to do with psychological clarity.
So now I’m just writing to you, Someone, even though you are no one. But, like I said, I live in my head.