I am the girl who sits and daydreams all day instead of living out her life. I always thought thatmy dreams (daydreams or the ones I had at night) were infinitely better than real life anyway. I dream of becoming famous, becoming prettier, being smarter, getting into a good college, running away with my dream man. . . basically having a better life than the one I had.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I have a pretty good life. I don't have a sob story. My parents didn't beat me, my uncle didn't rape me, and I've never been molested. Actually if you think about it, I have a pretty darn good life. I love my family with all my heart and they love me with the same intensity.
But for some reason, I just can't appreciate life. Something doesn't click in my brain. So instead I spend life with my friend, the blade. And when I don't allow the blade slide smoothly across my skin, I contemplate ways of ending my life. It's the only way to deal with my sad, pathetic attempt at a life-- knowing that soon, I would be able to get another cut in. Or when that wasn't enough, the comfort of knowing that dying was an option.
I am worth nothing in this world. I am not full of teenage angst and confusion, but I truly believe this.