I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.
Washing my hands in the dark of my room, I realized how scared I am. This is good.
This is really good because before this, for about a year I have not been scared of what I am doing to myself. Every decision to hurt myself and hate myself has been made without any fear. All the fear has been chewed like paper and swallowed up hard into some dark, other place that seems almost bottomless.
Almost. Because now, I am scared.
Tonight I don’t feel the same prickle of warmth that usually comes as a reassurance that everything will be fine tomorrow morning.
Not everything will be fine.
Tomorrow I will wake up and the acid will still be melting my teeth, my stomach lining will still be leaking blood. When I wake up I will still hate the shape of my legs and the protest of my ass. My decision to hate myself has been made, and when I pull my shirt on tomorrow I will automatically avoid touching my stomach because in my head, I am already too ugly to consider.
I haven’t loved myself since 2010. Wow, it’s been almost four years. This seems impossible.
I haven’t loved myself since He loved me. So stupid–such a stupid fucked up time in my life. A boy who I do not know anything about anymore used to be a person that defined me in every way, and left me to become this broken mess of Me. Broken to the point where I need to take medicine every night to stop me from drowning in my own misery.
I am broken enough that I can’t make real connections with people for fear that I’ll make them unhappy. That’s fucked up.
Did I think this way before Him? Did I used to avoid being around people in favor of sitting alone and hating myself? Before Him, I didn’t run. I played and I had control and I had self-respect and I loved myself. I would stare into the mirror and I would love myself.
It’s hard to say where I am now. I can’t blame someone who I loved, who loved me, for making me into the crispy crust of sadness I am today.
But if I can’t blame him, than whom can I blame? Should I just take all the responsibility; will that make everything better? Or will knowing that my hate is just that, “my” special prescribed brand, make my fingers forget the fear and cut away at myself tomorrow?