FicWad

I'm a liar.

I'm a cheater.

I'm a whore.

I'm a loser, a monster, a cutter, and more.

I can't take back what has passed and I can't promise it won't happen again.
I would ask you not to judge me, but how could I expect that?
I act like my life is bad. I exaggerate a lot.
I've lied to everyone. Even myself.
I'm to a point, I barely know what the truth is anymore. I can't trust or confide in anyone.
My friends don't need me anymore. They don't need the stress, not like most of them care anyway.
My mom would just send me away.
My girlfriend. . . I'm afraid to push her away with the way I am. I want her to know that I love her. Because I do. I truly do.
The counselors at school lie and betray trust.
I have to hide behind a name to show my feelings in what I write. . . Online. I'm a coward.
So what?Who cares? No one really cares. They might act like it and say they do, but who wouldn't?
Nothing has happened for me to have an excuse to act this way.
I have no reason to feel the way I do. Sometimes, I wish I did, so I knew how to deal with it.
I'm asked if I'm depressed. If I feel safe. Am I suicidal? They say they care.
I'm asked not to do the things I do. I'm looked at as if I'm an animal or a baby when I can't stop.
So, I'm done with the lies.
Done with hiding.
Done with it all.
I'll stop trying.
Maybe next time it will be enough.
Maybe I'll stop eating for long enough.
Maybe I'll cut deep enough.
Maybe I'll overdose next time.
Maybe I'll actually fucking go through with it.
I've been a waste.
If I died, the sun would still come up tomorrow. Stars would still shine. Life would go on. Everyone would get over it relativly easily. They say not to think this way.
So it's time for it all to stop.
The people who know don't care. I don't expect them to. None of them. Except for one. The one that I ask for help and she turns her back. She said she would be there for me. I told her nearly evrything. She seemed so mad at me.
I told her about Paul, my'father'. About my past boyfriends. About my cousin. Why I'm afraid of men. About how I'm terrified of people. Why I can't stand crying in public. About not wanting to live. About my mom. About my hatred of myself.
"Well just talk to someone, it's not that hard.""I'll help you.""That is complete bullshit, Kaitlyn, everyone LOVES you.""You don't deserve to keep all of this to yourself.""It isn't selfish, you're just in pain.""This has to stop. Now."
How can I be expected to stop when she refuses to admit anything is wrong? Just talk to someone?Was she listening?!I can barely talk to my fucking best friend without being awkwardly afraid.
No one knows the truth. But I guess they will now.
Yes, I'm depressed. Anyone who was told their entire life that they are fat and ugly and worthless by the ones who were supposed to love them should feel accomplished if they aren't depressed.
No, I'm not okay. Or safe.
Yes, I've been suicidal. Why not?People freak out and pretend to be concerned. When they really are, it just makes it worse because I don't deserve to make someone worry.
No, I don't eat right. It may not look like it, but it's true. I wish I could be able to eat and not care and be happy again.
I wish it didn't hurt for people to see me.
Yes, I cut myself. And no, I don't think I can stop. I've been trying to stop since I fucking started. Talking about it. Rubber bands. Drawing with red. Butterflies used to help.
Yes, I'm afraid. Not only of other people, but of myself.
No, I won't make it much longer. I think about it every day. Every day I make myself imagine the people around me dying because of me. I screw everything up. I can't talk to people without making them mad or sad. Maybe everyone will be happier when I'm gone.
The only thing that stopped me before was not leaving a mess for someone to have to clean up. Maybe I'll get over it soon.
I promised to stop counting calories.
I promised to get rid of my razorblades.
I promised two weeks. Two weeks without suicide. No thoughts, no cuts, no anything.
I promised to love myself.
I stopped counting calories. Now, almost everything that goes into my body comes right back up.
I got rid of the razorblades. And found more.
It's almost been two weeks. And I can't do it.
I can't find anything about myself to love, so I pretended I was good enough.
I promised to smile more. It just hurts more later on when I know hpw much I've lied.
I wear jackets and gloves and bracelets and pants and my hair down so no one sees anything.
No one would notice or care if I didn't.
I've stopped asking for help.
So what?
So what if something happens?
No one gives a damn until it's too fucking late.
Yes, it could has been worse.
Maybe I'm just really whiney.
It won't matter much longer.
Sorry, I couldn't make it two weeks.