because nobody really g e t s i t.
--
She's fed up.
She's sick of the sympathetic smiles, the way their mouths all form a perfect o when they find out what's wrong with her, the way the shock registers on their face, but don't worry, sweetheart, you can beat this.
Yeah, because they know so much about it.
She hates the way people assume that she's doing it for the attention, and she hates hates hates that people look at her like she's fine, when can't you fucking see there's something wrong?
She hates the way everyone encourages her to do better, because she's so much better than this. She's not. She's horrible horrible horrible.
These voices run through her head, constantly telling her that she's worthless, she was stupid to ever think she could be good enough for him, and can't you see you'll never win your mother's approval?
No one can really understand what it's like, to look in the mirror and always see all of the imperfections, magnified so she can't look away, because she's worthless, she always has been, and she always will be. No one can understand the painful longing to feel normal for a day, or the constant self-hatred, to the point where she's crying herself to sleep at night because she's so fucking disgusted with herself, or the fact that all she wants to do is tear her skin right off.
Mostly though, nobody will ever really understand that she can't just freaking slice her arm open and not feel anything. It's not humanly possible to cut that deep and not feel the pain. Besides, she prefers to do it on the surface, slowly so that it hurts the way she wants (needs) it to, and so there won't be any lasting scars. People sometimes see.
Sure, people have seen the cuts before, but no one says anything, because if they close their eyes tightly enough it's like it never even happened.
She waits for it, too. It's not an everyday thing. She does it when she's most emotional, when the urge to scream until her voice fades away and her legs give out gets so strong that she can't hold everything in anymore. It's much more satisfying that way. And the blood doesn't gush out. It lingers at the surface, like her sanity.
She holds it together well enough. She's irritable, but then people have always considered her to be a bitch, so why not fit the label? She knows they all think she's a manipulative, soulless worthless piece of trash anyway. She can hear them, when they talk and try to forget that she's there. She knows what they say. And they're right.
On her worst days, she feels like taking a long (scalding) shower, and just shoving herself under the water until she can't breathe anymore, until soon all that they'll hear is the patter of water on the tile floor.
But she doesn't. Because it's on her better days that she knows she's sick, and that despite what she feels so strongly, she didn't do anything to deserve to feel this way. It's on the good days that she looks at her arms, and the fading scars, and realizes that she needs (wants wants wants) to make a change. She's afraid of the monster that she's become. She needs help from someone, because deep down she knows there's so much more to this miserable existence.
But nobody really gets it. They see what they want to see, and believe what they want to believe, and so every depressed person uses the roughest, nastiest item most likely to cause hepatitis to carve a chunk of flesh out.
How very convenient.
--
So, that came out a LOT angstier than I thought it would. It's amazing what can happen when you're inspired, huh?