sometimes people notice my scars and ask what they're from. sometimes, they even ask why i did it. but most of the time, people ignore them. i see their eyes glance from my wrist to my face and all these emotions flurry behind their eyes. pity, disgust, confusion, repugnance... yet they don't say anything. they try to pretend that they don't see them. or that they're something they're not.
everyone would rather hear a pretty lie than listen to the truth.
unfortunately, this also rings true for my family. i walk around without hiding my scars and no one says anything. i can't tell if my mom actually notices or not but if she does, she chooses not to say anything. her whole parenting method is to let me figure things out on my own. give me space and let me deal with things myself. sometimes, that's worked out well for me but other times, i wonder how i'd be today if someone had noticed early on and turned on the stop light.
my father read this diary and chose to view it as a well-written piece of work that conbines both truth and fiction to the point where you can't see the seams. the reason why you cannot see the seams is because there is no fiction. everything in here, i've felt or i feel, i've done or i'm doing. he'd rather believe me when i say i've done meth than believe me when i say that i cut myself and have attempted suicide.
after i spent an hour writing in a vernon hotel room before trevor woke up, i came to the conclusion that everything i'm doing now that's self-destructive is a test. i'm waiting for someone to notice. not just notice; i'm waiting for someone to grab me by the hand and slap my face and tell me that what i'm doing is stupid. i'm waiting for someone to say, "no." and it's not good enough to have my friends know. my friends know about everything. they know about the relapse i had and how there's now a new cut to add to my collection (this one being on my left arm instead) and how it bled for six hours before clotting. they know about my food restrictions, how i go for days without eating, my love affair with my jutting hipbones.
it's not good enough for me. yes, this is a cry for attention. i am hungry for my parents to be as overprotective as other people's parents. i want my mother to tell me i can't go out. i want her to tell me i'm not allowed boys in my room. i want her to say that i cannot spend the night at my boyfriend's house. i want her to force me to eat.
my father is worse though. he had a glimpse into my mind. he read my thoughts and because he could not deal with it, he decided to view it as a mix of reality and fiction. choosing instead to believe me a gifted writer, one who can take facts from their own life and embellish upon them to create a piece of work that makes people feel. i just want him to notice the fact that he has not seen my forearms for several years. i want him to realize that i never wear a bathing suit in front of him. i want him to demand me to stop. to force me into getting serious psychiatric help.
this is all just a test. i'm seeing how far i can go before someone says stop. but so far, everyone forgets or doesn't notice. people say that it's my life, my body, i have the choice. but the truth is, i don't have a choice anymore. i chose to cut again, yes. but i didn't choose to cut that deep. it just happened. i hadn't cried for months probably and when trevor saw and when i heard him say, "that really scares me," i started crying. i sat there, in the bathroom beside his room, and cried because i was so tired of hearing that same sentence come from everyone's mouths and know that they're not going to do anything about it.
we ate dinner last night at a restaurant. i went to the bathroom afterwards and angie said, "if you go upchuck, i'll kill you." i laughed and then went into the bathroom and made myself throw up.
i feel fat and gross. i hate being who i am. i hate having scars all over my arms and not having the choice to stop. i like not eating. i like it when the weight slowly drips off my body and my skeleton starts showing more and more. this is my beauty. the funny part is, if anyone noticed, it'd just be to pay me a compliment on how skinny i've gotten. on how i should be a model.
sometimes i feel like doing the ultimate test and killing myself. i wonder if my family would consider it to be "accidental death" if i sliced my veins open in the bathroom.
10:50 a.m. - 2005-08-31
Recent entries:
This is the last entry. - 2005-09-13
we're going to make like a tree - 2005-09-12
nice guys finish last - 2005-09-02
this is a test: are you going to pass it or fail it? - 2005-08-31
no matthews allowed - 2005-08-22
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