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Description
Here I am again. After two long days worth of self destruction, here I am again. Pacing the damned basement of this damned house, silently sobbing. Or rather internally sobbing. I wish I were sobbing, my eyes are as dry as the Sahara, and crying would sure feel good right about now. But crying is not an option for me; my tears dried up years ago. I mean, sure, I could go upstairs and fumble around for eye drops, but the basement door is just too damned squeaky; I don't want to wake anybody up. That's the problem. Right there. Even if I did wake them up, they'd only force me to my room to go to bed, never stopping for a moment to think that I might have a problem, oh no! That's the problem; they respect my privacy too much. Sometimes I wish my parents would be more intrusive. I mean it's cool having folks you can joke around with and being able to do pretty much whatever you want as long as you're doing well in school and not in trouble, but there's not much structure. Don't boundaries show kids that their parents love them? It's pretty messed up, actually. I've never been grounded, not even the time I got a detention. Other than that I haven't done much to warrant being grounded, but still. Anyway, sometimes I just wish they'd force me to eat my vegetables, instead of me forcing them to buy me vegetables. Okay, so that's not the only reason my life's messed up, but it is part of why my family is messed up. I like them how they are, but I can't help but wonder if this has made everything else easier or harder to cope with. Oh, well, you only live in one universe at a time. I wonder if maybe Mom's trying to compensate for my childhood. It was far from horrible, but between her and my father's genes, and the examples she's set, I haven't picked up the best coping skills. She's always so worried about what people think of her, so she's overly sweet in public. She lets all this stress and tension build up, until the point where she explodes, like a volcano. You can thank health class for that analogy. Like anyone even pays attention in those classes anyway. Well maybe I did, but I was trying to ignore this irritating jerk I was forced to sit next to in most of my classes. He used to poke me with pens, caps off, and freshly sharpened pencils, pointy. Very forcefully. Yeah, the teacher knew about it, I tried to punch the jerk, the teacher didn't care, but at least it proved to him that it did not matter how much he teased me, I would not break down and request a seat change. Okay, kind of dumb, but I was clinging to what little pride I had left at that point. That year sucked on an indescribable level. Other suckish things happened that year, but now is not the time. Back to my mom. Yeah, I think she's got BPD, I think I've got BPD, but she has these major mood swings, and I just don't know how to act around her. She used to explode at me for things I had nothing to do with. Yeah, I guess I was pretty impressionable, 'cause now I think that every little thing I do wrong will warrant major a tongue lashing. Maybe I'm a paranoid perfectionist, with a mood disorder, bad genes, and bizarre childhood. Who knows? Fact of the matter is, she also picks at wounds all the time; she picks at her cuticles too. Nervous habit. I picked up. I also used to try to get paper cuts intentionally in elementary school. Yeah, I have problems.
And this all leads back to where I am. Pacing in the dark. Late at night, possibly early in the morning; I haven't checked the clock in a while. Draped in a silky purple blanket. Trying to keep warm. Ranting to thin air about where I went wrong. I guess you can see where this is going. Or maybe you can't. Who am I talking to, anyway? Oh, what's the use! Oh well, maybe if I vent enough, I'll be tired out and able to sleep. So this all connects to the days of self destruction, right? Yeah, self harm, hot candle wax spilled on blankets, and horror movies that I laughed all the way through. In backwards order, they each led to the next. Horror movies with fire made me want to play with candles. My hand is all scratched up from trying to get the excess wax out of the broken jar the candle's in. Also from those attempts, I spilled wax on the blankets I was covered in, because i had stayed home sick. I was afraid of Mom's punishment, or lack thereof, felt like a total loser, if ever there was one, and decided to punish myself. And voila! Shallow cuts on my right arm running from elbow to wrist. Yeah, yesterday was fun. Lotsa unhealthy foods and major binging. Sleeping was a hoot, too. Co-ink-a-dink-aly, I spent a good chunk of last night pacing the living room. Did I mention yesterday was fun? Today was fun, too. Looking up videos by people I know and videos about self injury and eating disorders on Youtube. Binging, yet again. I just can't get my act together, can I? I spent a good chunk of time drawing frowny faces. On my body. In sharpie. Yeah, today's been fun. I've also been writing phrases. "WORTHLESS," thrice underlined, on my left forearm. "UGLY," "BITCH," and "WHORE" on my left thigh. "FAT," "DISGUSTING," and "UNLOVABLE" on my right thigh. Sharpie again. Too many open sores is hard to hide at dance class. Sharpie's hard enough. Binging, binging, and more binging, plus the fact that I fail at purging, equals EPIC FAIL. Yeah, I am an epic fail. Tired now. Ranting complete. I'm climbing up the basement steps, I take care to not make the door squeak. I check the front, kitchen, and back door to make sure they're locked, then I check to make sure the oven and burners are off. Check check check. I yawn. I sneak up the stairs, transferring my weight enough to make the stairs creek very little. Too tired to form comprehensible sentences. I get to the room at the end of the hall, my room. I crawl into bed and peek at the clock before taking my glasses off. Half past two. I best be getting some sleep; I'm helping with Children's Church in the morning.

Description
Here I am again. After two long days worth of self destruction, here I am again. Pacing the damned basement of this damned house, silently sobbing. Or rather internally sobbing. I wish I were sobbing, my eyes are as dry as the Sahara, and crying would sure feel good right about now. But crying is not an option for me; my tears dried up years ago. I mean, sure, I could go upstairs and fumble around for eye drops, but the basement door is just too damned squeaky; I don't want to wake anybody up. That's the problem. Right there. Even if I did wake them up, they'd only force me to my room to go to bed, never stopping for a moment to think that I might have a problem, oh no! That's the problem; they respect my privacy too much. Sometimes I wish my parents would be more intrusive. I mean it's cool having folks you can joke around with and being able to do pretty much whatever you want as long as you're doing well in school and not in trouble, but there's not much structure. Don't boundaries show kids that their parents love them? It's pretty messed up, actually. I've never been grounded, not even the time I got a detention. Other than that I haven't done much to warrant being grounded, but still. Anyway, sometimes I just wish they'd force me to eat my vegetables, instead of me forcing them to buy me vegetables. Okay, so that's not the only reason my life's messed up, but it is part of why my family is messed up. I like them how they are, but I can't help but wonder if this has made everything else easier or harder to cope with. Oh, well, you only live in one universe at a time. I wonder if maybe Mom's trying to compensate for my childhood. It was far from horrible, but between her and my father's genes, and the examples she's set, I haven't picked up the best coping skills. She's always so worried about what people think of her, so she's overly sweet in public. She lets all this stress and tension build up, until the point where she explodes, like a volcano. You can thank health class for that analogy. Like anyone even pays attention in those classes anyway. Well maybe I did, but I was trying to ignore this irritating jerk I was forced to sit next to in most of my classes. He used to poke me with pens, caps off, and freshly sharpened pencils, pointy. Very forcefully. Yeah, the teacher knew about it, I tried to punch the jerk, the teacher didn't care, but at least it proved to him that it did not matter how much he teased me, I would not break down and request a seat change. Okay, kind of dumb, but I was clinging to what little pride I had left at that point. That year sucked on an indescribable level. Other suckish things happened that year, but now is not the time. Back to my mom. Yeah, I think she's got BPD, I think I've got BPD, but she has these major mood swings, and I just don't know how to act around her. She used to explode at me for things I had nothing to do with. Yeah, I guess I was pretty impressionable, 'cause now I think that every little thing I do wrong will warrant major a tongue lashing. Maybe I'm a paranoid perfectionist, with a mood disorder, bad genes, and bizarre childhood. Who knows? Fact of the matter is, she also picks at wounds all the time; she picks at her cuticles too. Nervous habit. I picked up. I also used to try to get paper cuts intentionally in elementary school. Yeah, I have problems.
And this all leads back to where I am. Pacing in the dark. Late at night, possibly early in the morning; I haven't checked the clock in a while. Draped in a silky purple blanket. Trying to keep warm. Ranting to thin air about where I went wrong. I guess you can see where this is going. Or maybe you can't. Who am I talking to, anyway? Oh, what's the use! Oh well, maybe if I vent enough, I'll be tired out and able to sleep. So this all connects to the days of self destruction, right? Yeah, self harm, hot candle wax spilled on blankets, and horror movies that I laughed all the way through. In backwards order, they each led to the next. Horror movies with fire made me want to play with candles. My hand is all scratched up from trying to get the excess wax out of the broken jar the candle's in. Also from those attempts, I spilled wax on the blankets I was covered in, because i had stayed home sick. I was afraid of Mom's punishment, or lack thereof, felt like a total loser, if ever there was one, and decided to punish myself. And voila! Shallow cuts on my right arm running from elbow to wrist. Yeah, yesterday was fun. Lotsa unhealthy foods and major binging. Sleeping was a hoot, too. Co-ink-a-dink-aly, I spent a good chunk of last night pacing the living room. Did I mention yesterday was fun? Today was fun, too. Looking up videos by people I know and videos about self injury and eating disorders on Youtube. Binging, yet again. I just can't get my act together, can I? I spent a good chunk of time drawing frowny faces. On my body. In sharpie. Yeah, today's been fun. I've also been writing phrases. "WORTHLESS," thrice underlined, on my left forearm. "UGLY," "BITCH," and "WHORE" on my left thigh. "FAT," "DISGUSTING," and "UNLOVABLE" on my right thigh. Sharpie again. Too many open sores is hard to hide at dance class. Sharpie's hard enough. Binging, binging, and more binging, plus the fact that I fail at purging, equals EPIC FAIL. Yeah, I am an epic fail. Tired now. Ranting complete. I'm climbing up the basement steps, I take care to not make the door squeak. I check the front, kitchen, and back door to make sure they're locked, then I check to make sure the oven and burners are off. Check check check. I yawn. I sneak up the stairs, transferring my weight enough to make the stairs creek very little. Too tired to form comprehensible sentences. I get to the room at the end of the hall, my room. I crawl into bed and peek at the clock before taking my glasses off. Half past two. I best be getting some sleep; I'm helping with Children's Church in the morning.