They don't know what it's like. They don't understand my struggles, my emotional state of mind, my faulty actions. It's all "point-a-finger-at-her" and trying to show me off to a world that doesn't want me. No one wants an ugly face, a fat body, a not-so-healthy girl who has problems. They don't want another depressing emo to add to the shattering equivalent of the place we call "Earth" today.
I am afraid of judgement. No, to be any more honest with you, I am terrified of it. I can't handle judgement heading my direction. I break down and cry, or I rebel and fight, or I give up again like a cracked Humpty Dumpty. Shit happens and it's not pretty. Ever.
I can go off the edge too. Hours upon hours in a day I will just sit down and make all this art. DIY crafts, cards, sketches, 3D work. On the opposite side of the matter I end up crying a hell of a lot in the day, whimpering my apology to God (yes I'm a Christian and I don't say this as fiction or humor). Two weeks ago, I had a huge OCD episode where I cleaned every little section of my room, minus my closet. Everything had to be in perfect order. There's no explanation for it, I guess. Just Bipolar Type II that hits me with extremes.
I scare myself and I scare others. The thoughts that go through my mind are that of a maniac locked in an asylum or teen correctional facility. I'm crazy, I'm insane, and I'm not in control. Hell I don't think I ever was in control of anything before.
Sleep is my fucking paradise. Middle fingers have become close friends. Swear words - well "sentence enhancers" - practically are family. When I sleep the monsters in my head have to sleep too. No one hurts me. No one bothers me. I always want to overdose on pills for the best sleep yet to come.
I dream about dying butterflies, broken bottles, and stained pages from old diaries that have been ripped out. I dream of black clothes, black dyed hair, black accessories. I dream about finding the place they call "Wonderland", exploring oblivion that no one has mapped before, and marching in the Black Parade while MCR performs alongside me. I dream of crimson waterfalls on my pale skin, a trail of red droplets leading from the bathroom to my room, and of seeing blood so neatly lined up in three rows of each time the tool is put to corrective use. I dream about not existing anymore, what my coffin will look like: a beautiful suicide to me, and the flowers that will grow on top, further separating me from the bewitched society.
Look I can't do this anymore. I can't. It's too damn hard to be this perfectionist or Mommy's little angel or Daddy's girl. It's taking everything from me, I don't have access to a fucking gun or any kind of pills. I have tried so many times to strangle myself but had to fight myself and say not to. Death is an invitation for me. I'm not scared of death. I want to just fucking die already and I can't do this anymore I'm sorry guys I'm so so sorry for everything wrong I've done God you know my sins and I'm sorry please forgive me I can't I just can't
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