Status: Baby I'm back! I've been gone for nearly 10 years, so please take the early chapters with a pinch of salt.
To tell, or not to tell.
What MayBe
Tears stream down my face. Hormones or something, right? I bite my pillow. It doesn't help let off steam much. Silence is mandatory, there's a baby sleeping next door. Maybe, maybe if I could sob aloud it wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe if I wasn't such a stupid drama queen.
The held in sobs turn to quiet whimpers. Sniffles and deep breathing. I feel angry, not sad. I can't do anything about my anger, though. I can't hit or scream or hurt the person who actually hurt me. This annoys me more. I feel like crying again. Like screaming out in anguish. I want to rip something, tear something. Hurt something. I can picture it. I can picture myself smashing someone's head in. I can see the blood that would drain from them leaving them lifeless. I can see the tears that run down my mad face that don't match me creepy smile. I can see it oh so clearly. I'm crazy. Mental. Or maybe not.
Maybe everyone gets this urge.
No! Other people may say they want to kill people but they don't actually want to. Do they? My hand flies to my face as my breath hitches. I gasp for air. I'm a freak! I list the things wrong with me, physically and mentally; I'm fat, I'm ugly, I . Then I list the things wrong with my life. It turns into a rant about why my life is so sad and pitiful, raging and burning like a fire through my head, bottled up fury.
Maybe I'd be better off...
What is this nonsense! I have a wonderful life! I have a loving, caring broken family, good friends, good grades! I have food on the table! What about the poor kids in Africa, huh, ever stop to think about them? Didn't think so. So I'm a bit over weight, big deal. And you're not that bad looking with out your glasses. Wait, when did I start talking in second person?
Maybe I have multiple personalities?
I grab my hair and pull. This is wrong. I don't have any control over my thoughts any more. I can't control anything. I still want to hurt someone. I cross my arms but instead of folding my hands in I shape them into claws and scratch. It hurts, but it's not enough.
Maybe I can have control.
I'm not thinking straight. This is madness. What are you doing!? Don't take that needle! It's for sewing, not that! You fool! What if someone sees the marks? What if you hit an artery? What if, what if, what if.
What if you just shut up, little annoying voice?
My heart beats faster in my chest. Adrenaline pumps as I make the first cut. It's not really a cut as such, more a scratch. The tears have stopped falling, but my cheeks are still wet with them: shamelessly giving away my past activity. I'm concentrating, not thinking of any thing else but the needle on my skin. It makes small white marks.
Maybe this is good for me.
Thoughts start to creep in. Worries. It's all about control. Just a little harder... Now the needle makes red marks. No blood yet though. No skin broken. It raises slightly, leaving lines that are sure to disappear in time for school tomorrow. No-one will have to know. Wait, that's a thought. Concentrate!
Maybe I should press just a little harder...
Maybe if I wasn't such a stupid drama queen.
The held in sobs turn to quiet whimpers. Sniffles and deep breathing. I feel angry, not sad. I can't do anything about my anger, though. I can't hit or scream or hurt the person who actually hurt me. This annoys me more. I feel like crying again. Like screaming out in anguish. I want to rip something, tear something. Hurt something. I can picture it. I can picture myself smashing someone's head in. I can see the blood that would drain from them leaving them lifeless. I can see the tears that run down my mad face that don't match me creepy smile. I can see it oh so clearly. I'm crazy. Mental. Or maybe not.
Maybe everyone gets this urge.
No! Other people may say they want to kill people but they don't actually want to. Do they? My hand flies to my face as my breath hitches. I gasp for air. I'm a freak! I list the things wrong with me, physically and mentally; I'm fat, I'm ugly, I . Then I list the things wrong with my life. It turns into a rant about why my life is so sad and pitiful, raging and burning like a fire through my head, bottled up fury.
Maybe I'd be better off...
What is this nonsense! I have a wonderful life! I have a loving, caring broken family, good friends, good grades! I have food on the table! What about the poor kids in Africa, huh, ever stop to think about them? Didn't think so. So I'm a bit over weight, big deal. And you're not that bad looking with out your glasses. Wait, when did I start talking in second person?
Maybe I have multiple personalities?
I grab my hair and pull. This is wrong. I don't have any control over my thoughts any more. I can't control anything. I still want to hurt someone. I cross my arms but instead of folding my hands in I shape them into claws and scratch. It hurts, but it's not enough.
Maybe I can have control.
I'm not thinking straight. This is madness. What are you doing!? Don't take that needle! It's for sewing, not that! You fool! What if someone sees the marks? What if you hit an artery? What if, what if, what if.
What if you just shut up, little annoying voice?
My heart beats faster in my chest. Adrenaline pumps as I make the first cut. It's not really a cut as such, more a scratch. The tears have stopped falling, but my cheeks are still wet with them: shamelessly giving away my past activity. I'm concentrating, not thinking of any thing else but the needle on my skin. It makes small white marks.
Maybe this is good for me.
Thoughts start to creep in. Worries. It's all about control. Just a little harder... Now the needle makes red marks. No blood yet though. No skin broken. It raises slightly, leaving lines that are sure to disappear in time for school tomorrow. No-one will have to know. Wait, that's a thought. Concentrate!
Maybe I should press just a little harder...