I sleep at least eight hours a night for the week that J.P. has been here. I've eaten like a dang cow. Still, always tired, getting bags under my eyes, my moods change in a snap, I even crashed one day after school like I used to do when I was only getting five hours a night. Maybe it's this medicine..?
This is the first night I've actually been awake while one it. I feel like slicing opening a vein even though the whole FREAKING world knows about it. I feel like starving until I can't see straight. To be honest, I feel screwed up. I cannot think of anything that should happen in the story I was working on. Maybe I'll write a letter to my councilor explaining how crappy I feel like (because I can never seem to remember when she asks about it two or three weeks later) and then actually cut myself open. I haven't since, like, the 15th. I'm scared, and wondering if I should try to not to, but panic seems to be filling and that is the only way that I've found for curing all of this and I don't really know what to do.
Can I learn to be normal again? Or did J.R. wreck that part of me, laugh as it went up in smoke? Can I learn to not mention how fat I feel after eating all day? Can I learn to laugh at how I act now instead of being terrified that someone will find out what I'm simply willing to tell them?
There are three words I would use to describe myself, but I wonder who would and who wouldn't agree with me. The three words: Afraid, ruined, broken. Can you believe I laugh in the face of danger? Can you believe that I didn't care who was fat and who wasn't? That I didn't care if I was? Now here I am. Cuts on my body, starvation on my brain, and if you find the pieces of my soul please ask them to come back so I can try to mend it. I'm sure you have been somewhere like here. The almost darkest part of your world were you just want to cry, but you cannot cry. Crying is like announcing defeat.
And I cannot announce defeat.
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