Looking back, she never really knew what she was doing. Or actually it was that twilight state of consciousness where you felt it and you knew you did it, but still, had it really happened?
Well surely the marks on her arms are substantial and does not lie.
So how did it become that the happiest girl in grade 5 relegated to this form, sitting at her dining table, somewhat thrilled by the shivers of anticipating someone to come home and her ability to deceive them of what she was doing. Her cat is watching her, and she wonders if he knows what she is doing and whether or not he would be scared – had he been human enough to feel such empathy. She also marvels quietly that this is such a stigmatic act when in reality probably half the people she knows are capable of this and she would’ve never known! Just imagine, how outrageously easy it is to be deceptive and elude the reality of how depressed we are.
It first began in March. Oh it was just a one-time dramatic fiasco. Nothing monumental. Probably not even worth mentioning. But then it happened once again in June. Oh she was just crazy head over heels and over enthusiastic about love. Then once again, just before Halloween rolled by such act was performed again. No longer in love. And she wonders to herself a rhetorical question : Am I doing this for attention?
She is not depressed. She knows. But why then does she find it harder to execute the familiar charm of her younger self. Is she perhaps really just a nut case putting herself up for ridicule to embrace the more sinister peripheral of the world? Does getting ink, body jewelry and listening to abnormal songs not so patronized by the radio stations determine who she is ? – stereotypically? Ah she is a little bit afraid. Will she come to regret this later on and refer to it as the ‘dark ages’ or something else equally as melodramatic? Though will it be that this has what she had always been. Undisclosed , finally, despite the inevitable warm welcome.
Sometimes she regrets what she has done – most materialistic problems such as itchy scabs or having to compromise long sleeves all the time. Though most of the time it’s just another event in life. It doesn’t have an effect on who she is. And she wonders if she would ever undergo it again.
She is sometimes most afraid of herself.
Really she should just stay away from society and humanity. She tells herself not to sought for friendship and worse of all, love. But she is selfish and human and she needs companionship. And no matter how much she convinces herself how worthless she is and undeserving of such attention it only draws her audience to further pity her. Then she’ll feel even more disgusted with what a terrible person she is to become all those others before her whom she’s probably hated upon too. And it’s just a never ending cycle.
“We only accept the love we think we deserve.”
So what is it that makes her so ridiculously self-condemned? What is that answer, that would in time be so easily transparent she would really head her desk at how stupid she is – Make yourself into someone who you deem worthy of whomever’s love. Ah so cliche, she really tries her hardest to stay away from such daily ‘epiphanies’ but she will give it applause for being an incentive to become a better person. Even if its more for someone else than herself, all will come in due time.
Now sometimes she looks at herself and feels a melancholic nostalgia towards those stripes on her arm. Perhaps it was good to have expressed herself that way. It was like revealing what was happening internally regardless of her intentions. And now she is not unmarked. Not beautifully pure skinned like her mother admires. But that’s okay, because who wants to be wonderfully untainted and so darn outwardly perfect anyway.