The first mistake

I looked in the mirror today. That was the first mistake. I'm wearing this cast that weighs half a tonne. I have two bags under my eyes. I have red, flaky skin. I am covered in a red, itchy rash. I am carrying painfully obvious extra kilos. I have bertocchi ham thighs. One breast is bigger than the other. And there's nothing I can do about these things; not even accept them.

Part of me is actually astounded that I could still be so unhappy in the now. The very same now that should be blissful and free. This other part of me is not surprised at all and consoles me with the dark fact that it was only a matter of time until I reached this place again. And how could I not when the only circumstance that changed was my going to school? Roaccutane still ruins my life on a day to day basis. My return to the Alfred hangs gloomily over my head. My body still punishes me for every movement in every moment in every day. Life is practically the same, despite the promise of it all.

Suicide does still cross my mind, but far less frequently than the thought and need to cut. I am surprised by how much I think of it now. Especially given how much time had passed between cuts; though I do currently wear one proud red mark. And I'm far less upset about this than I should be. Show me an alternative that 'works' and I'll show you one that doesn't. I'll even go so far as to admit that I like the scars. I like the blood, the more the better. I like the sharp foreign feeling of the act that is so different to any other pain I'm feeling. I like being able to see and touch them and feel visible. I like the idea that I can raze the pain away and I would quarter myself if it made the difference between happiness and what I have. I probably won't ever really stop.

But still, the most distressing circumstance remains my ongoing depression and wondering for the first time, just how much of this is a product of school? And now without it there is no reason, no motivation, to continue this dogged forward march towards the light I can say with confidence does not exist. Why should I get up in the morning? Why should I eat? Why should I get dressed? Why should I make the effort to keep up with people? I can count on one hand the people who consistently make the effort to say 'hi' to me now. I'm tired of chasing. These people don't care. And that's okay now. I'm not going to try anymore.

I am tired of hating me though. I'm over the mistakes. I wish these things wouldn't happen to me anymore.
- Sky