In My Head

I'm not the girl you would expect me to be based on my appearance. (And yes, we all judge based on appearances, even if we don't want to admit that we do).

I admit that my appearance isn't the most conventional of looks, but it suits me.

I have body modifications--15 piercings and 9 tattoos.

My hair is purple.

I like winged eyeliner and dark lipstick.

I tend to wear mostly black clothes.

No, that does not mean I worship the devil. It does not mean that I refer to myself as a "goth" or an "emo" person.

In fact, I hate labels.

It only means that I have a unique sense of style and view my body as my very own art canvas to decorate as I choose.

Why am I telling you all of this?

I really don't know. 

I guess as a prequel to what I'm about to write. 

General information about myself, I suppose...

Well, here goes.

I don't know why I think the way I do.

I don't know why I get sad.

I don't know why I get scared.

I don't know why I used to cut myself almost every day.

Or why I used to starve myself.

I just. don't. know.

What I do know, is that at the age of 12, I was diagnosed with severe depression and an anxiety disorder. I was told that I was anorexic. I was told that I was a self mutilator. I was told (though I had of course known this for many years) that my father was a raging alcoholic and that nothing I did could make any of these things better.

So, I died.

Not physically of course. But emotionally, I felt nothing--and everything.

I was sent to a hospital because I was "going crazy" and neither my drunk father, nor my oblivious and absent mother could handle me.

I suppose the two suicide attempts could also have had something to do with the hospitalization. Although, I'm not sure anyone besides me even knew that I had tried to kill myself--once with half a bottle of xanax being gagged down, and once with a razor blade to the wrist. (Although I messed that one up by cutting horizontally instead of vertically. I guess I have my ignorance of the anatomy of the human body to thank for that one).

Anyway, at the hospital I was given a cocktail of drugs that were supposed to help my body "process" the amount of fucked up chemicals in my brain, so that I could live a "normal" life.

Well, that sure as hell didn't help.

I refused to take them. I refused to let the nurses even touch me (I even went so far as to tell one of the female nurses that if she came near me with her little blood drawing kit that I would punch her in the throat. Which of course only made the doctors think there was something else wrong with me).

You know what else didn't help?

The fact that my roommate at this inpatient program was there for stashing a butcher knife under her pillow at home one night and then proceeding to try and kill her mother. Did I mention that at night, she would sit at the end of her bed and talk to "Satan"?

Because she did. And I was too scared shitless to fall asleep, so I just got to sit there and listen--and then pretend to be asleep every fifteen minutes when the nurses would do a room check in to make sure that none of us had hung ourselves from the ceiling with the tiny bed sheet they had given us.

Ahhh--well. It's time for me to get to bed. Sorry to leave you on such a cliffhanger. If you really do want to read more, then let me know and I'll be back with the rest...or atleast more.

Ta for now.

Author's Note

This is my past. Please don't judge me yet. Things get better, I promise.

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[Robert Parlange]

Writing is a great release. A way to get all that stuff out of your head before it explodes. Take advantage of this website. We are all amateurs here. And nobody gets through life undamaged.