Dear Diary,
I can't believe that stupid shrink is making me do this. Like a journal is going to help me find out who I am. I already know the answer to that question and it's nothing. I'm just a waste of space, something you easily overlook like trash on the side of the road. But I will give the whole journal thing a try and see where it goes.
Where to begin? I guess my name and stuff like that would be a good start. My name is Eulalie Rose Sanchez and I'm sixteen. I have a medical condition called Turner's Syndrome. It only occurs in one of of every twenty-five hundred girls born showing how rare this condition is. The condition presents itself with a variety of symptoms. The most noticable being short, though the few I have met prefer the term vertically challenged; I stand at a staggering four foot nine inches. This is just the last of our worries. We also have very little breast development, I were a sports bra because I don't even fit into an A cup, and it matches well with the fact the ninety-nine percent of us are infertile. This comes from a condition called gonadal dysfuction, which means that our ovaries don't work properly and we don't have a monthly period.
I think this is what gets most of us. Every girl wishes for the day she finds out she is going to have a kid, but then we find out we can't. The thought of that slowly killed me inside. I mean I could always adopt, but it won't be the same for me. The way I see it since he or she really wouldn't be my child so I would have no right to tell them what to do or things like that. Invetrofertilization would be out of the question because either the fertilizied eggs most likely wouldn't take or most of them will and I will have to choose if I wanted to terminate the ones I don't want. I couldn't kill any because I believer every child has a chance to live.
The most dangerous things we have to deal with is being overweight and heart disease, which I think go together perfectly. Don't you? I myself have managed to keep my weight down to be only ten pounds overweight and have a heart condition called a bicuspid aortic valve. This means of the three valves that help close your aorta I only have two. It can be dangerous because my valve can slowly deteriorate and ultimately fail possibly killing me.
I had once tried to explain my condition in a science report when I was in the sixth grade. I thought it might make them back off of me and quit bullying me. Unfortunately, it went into one ear and out the other one. Since then I have gotten nothing but bullying and hideous jokes from them. .
That's partly the reason that I have a shrink. About six months ago I tried to kill myself and for some reason what ever God, spirit, or diety we pray to decided that my time wasn't up and didn't let me die. I stayed in a mental hospital but after the three days they could legally keep me and couldn't get a order to have me committed longer so I got out and was immediately carted off to some shrinks office by my mother. Let me tell you if someone needs a psychiatrist it's her. I'm not the one permanently high off of pills and drunk on vodka.
The first thing the shrink asks after we sit in silence for about fifteen minutes is why I tried to kill myself. I gave her a smile and said, "I'm already dead on the inside. Who wouldn't be after hearing how stupid, ugly, worthless, and what a mistake you were to have everyday of your life? So I decided I might as well make it official." This was the last thing I said to her because I refused to go back to her after that first visit. I wasn't gonna be some case study on the youth of America and their suicidal tendencies or some other topic like that. However, after many tearful, on my mother's part, fights and several drunken one-night stand, a few with men old enough to be my father, I finally agreed to go back. That was yesterday and now I have this stupid diary assignment. Isn't life peachy-keen?
I stop and close the tiny journal because my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't hold my pencil steady. Then I turn my face to the breeze that blows by and let it dry the tears that I had shed off my face. I never realized how hard it would be for me to look into my past and write about it. I thought it would be easy and I could do it with some form of detachment but all those emotions and thoughts I had came back full force like a slap in the face. Before this I had never wanted to think of my past because I knew this would happen and I didn't know if it was something I could deal with or wanted to deal with actually.
I fingered the jagged scar that ran along my wrist and tried to remember how it came. To my surprise the only thing I could remember was the pain of the blade going across my wrist and the a low ripping sound as my skin was torn open. Then my mom hugging my tightly when I woke up a few days later in the hospital.
"I don't mean to be rude, ma'am but it looks like you could use this," a rough voice drawled dragging me back from my reverie.