A little peak into my life.

You know, my self worth is measured in scars. It’s measured daily with how much it hurts when someone hugs me. My worth is in the pain. How much does it hurt? Because I never do enough. I never make myself hurt enough that someone notices. The blood rushing down my skin from another scratch etched by my own fingers is a high you would never get enough of. But then I start to think that if I don’t scratch hard enough, if I don’t show how much I hurt, if I don’t make myself into a picture of living hell, then nobody will care. They won’t take me seriously. They won’t want to help me if I don’t hurt enough. If I don’t show them the evidence of my pain in a way that they will understand, then it isn’t good enough. I’m not good enough. Daily I struggle with the desire to grab something more dangerous. Just a little sharper. So I can etch scars into my skin instead of bruises. Do you know what its like to constantly feel as if you aren’t good enough unless you push a little harder or do a little more? That’s how I live. Terrified of being told I’m just being dramatic or that my pain isn’t valid. My favorite of all is being told that I just want attention. Because that’s what will happen if mommy dearest ever finds out. I can’t handle anyone knowing even if they wouldn’t react that way though. I don’t want to be branded as depressed or have people wonder. “Will she kill herself because I said this?” They don’t get to treat me like a fragile object. They don’t get to treat me special. They don’t get to do anything when they don’t even notice or care when I seem so upset and depressed that I might as well be a walking corpse. They do not deserve anything when they make me feel as if I’m invisible. I think I’m just bitter though because even though they don’t care enough to notice, they are constantly telling me how much they would miss me when I’m gone. Just enough to make me think twice. I don’t believe them, of course not. But it still is enough to make me too guilty to do it. I resent them for it though. Daily. I hate everyone for not letting me. How am I supposed to hang from the ceiling and dangle there so beautifully if you ask me with tears in your eyes to stay alive? I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t. Not now at least. I await the day when you push me too far and don’t help me back up.