I feel that everyday. I don't feel like I fit in. I'm just a small, out-of-character, Hispanic chick living in a big, systematically chaotic and predominately white world. I don't belong here. My friends that I see everyday are happy. They don't see the big picture of life. Maybe they do. It's me who doesn't see reality.
I see hatred. Pain. Suffering. I enjoy it. Yet. . . sometimes I wish it would stop. I don't know what to think anymore. This violent world we live in. . . why do I enjoy it? Is it sick that I love seeing people suffer. Wrong that destruction makes me happy. I'm not perfect, you know.
I get up, go to school, come home. I breathe, I see, I feel. I'm happy. I'm angry.
All the damn time. I don't understand my emotions. I want to be numb. Like a robot. When people die, I want to be able to get over it. I want to be okay. But I can't. It takes days just to feel normal again. To feel myself, though I don't know what 'myself' is.
They tell us about depression at school. Get help. It gets better. But do they realize that it only gets worse after? That maybe, just maybe, they can't fathom what goes on inside me? I'm not some self-help, medical commercial. Days go by where I force myself not to cry, like I am now. My parents try to understand, they really do. But it doesn't matter when all that is important is when, or where, or how you should go.
Why am I telling you this?
I ache all over. I'm so fucking tired.
It's hard for me to make friends. I just can't. I'm weird. Antisocial. Afraid of the unknown. That's why, at lunch, I sit alone up in the halls. That's when I talk to you. Where, in an electronically safe place, I can be myself. Where people don't judge me and I allow myself to be happy.
This is why I'm here. This is why I'm so open. Because in reality, it's just the opposite. Really, I'm a shy, fragile little girl. I'm scared to die, but scared to live. I'm a ghost.
I'm afraid of hospitals. Afraid of pills. I need help, yet I don't want it. The therapists, the doctors. . . they don't notice that I'm not okay. They don't see the insanity thoughts in my mind. I'm a psycho.
If I could just get my hands on a gun. To feel the trigger. To blow some brains away. Do you understand me now?
I love belts, I really do. The restriction gives me freedom. Like erasers punish me while giving me hope. I'm just a porcelain doll threatening to break.
This is what emotions feel like.
Do you feel?
So. Uhm. I know this isn't exactly My Chem but I also know that you guys are my friends. I had to get this out. Sorry for the word vomit. I just. . . Ugh. Period's a bitch, yeah?