The Untitled Story of an Anxiety Disorder

Untitled Part 13

I want to be a mystery girl. An artsy mystery girl in an indie movie. I want to run away and leave a series of clues, I want to be the gorgeous but unknown girl. I want to be the girl that everyone thinks they know but they come to realize that they don't. I want to have a thing. A hallmark in my personality. I want to be able to tell my crush that I like him and that he will say it back. I want to go on adventures, I want to grow up and smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol, I want to fall in love. But I will never go on adventures or grow up or fall in love, I'm just to damaged for that. I will forever stay the twelve year old girl in the corner, fighting for her life. But her life is just another battle so in the end she is just fighting the battle for the prize of another war. 

I will never be the girl I want to be if I keep hurting myself, but there are so many reasons that the physical pain that I put myself through numbs the emotional pain that others have inflicted on me. I am just along for the ride as my thoughts take the wheel to conduct my life and I have no control on where it takes me even if it takes me in a downward spiral. And as I come closer to to the edge of the cliff that my thoughts have driven me to, I struggle to stop them but I have given them so much control already that they don't understand why I want them to stop. And there is no going back now because I am already falling from the edge and tumbling into the stormy stormy abyss that I can't quite see the end to. Now the pain is comforting which it never should be but after so long it feels like the air I exhale flushes out the spiraling thoughts in my brain, the same thoughts that told me to jump.  

I want to die but I am to young for that and I can't kill myself. I cut myself, and I stick my fingers down my throat and I drink the smelly liquid, but that is just to numb the emotional pain, it's just to hurt myself enough to know that it's real but not enough for my wish to come true. I don't  do it for the sake of others, I don't know what it would do to my parents or my friends. Would they even care? Would they notice I was gone? I know that they want me to be happy and while I'm still on Earth and living this life, I will never be happy, I will just continue the endless cycle of breaking the barrier around my heart. I will never be happy until I finally close my eyes so that my eyelashes touch, and all I see is black, until they are shut forever and never open again. Until I am gone forever. Until I am just a name on a stone in a park full of dead people, just two dates separated by a line, but the line never touches the numbers. The numbers mean nothing, one is the date that the torture began and the other is the date that I took it into my own hands to stop it. And the line is my whole life, the life you know all about, the life that made me  and the life that killed me. No matter if you lived until you were twelve or until you were ninety, your line will stay forever as the same length because in the end your life doesn't matter and you will just die, then the cycle repeats. 

About two hours ago she sticks two fingers down her throat. You might think it's because she is fat or bullied but no, she is a little girl who has felt so much pain from others that they convinced her that her life is pain. She does it for the pain but you wouldn't know that. Years later she is underweight, not eating anything and her ribs still stick through the many layers she uses to cover it up. What she is covering up is her pain. She doesn't want anybody to see the torment that she has put herself through. She's embarrassed because no one else has bandaids on their wrists, or scratched and bleeding cuticles, semi circles on their palms, ribs sticking out or a burning in their throats. No one has experienced what she has done to herself because they haven't endured the monsters in her mind or the ache in her heart. She told herself to do that and she had no choice but to trust herself even if the monster that lived under her bed actually lived in her head and it told her to kill herself. That little girl will be dead soon if you do not help her. That little girl is me. 

It is such a sad story, the story of my life. But of course you the dear reader knows everything about it because you have read this story. You have just skipped to the chapter in which I started documenting my pain, but there are many chapters before and many after I will stop, but you will never find out what happens because you don't know me and you aren't me. The second that you started reading this you became a witness to my pain and a bystander because you will not help me and I am not asking for your help. You are just the reader, along for the ride, you sit in the back seat, not the driver or in the passengers seat, you haven't actually seen and you will never see the pain and self loathing that I have put myself through. You are the sight in my rear view mirror and when I crash you will not be able to save me, you will be thrown from the car as I  am now unable to write. But you don't care. You will just move on to another story, forgetting about me. And I don't care. I never asked you to remember.