Self hatred always sounds so childish. You'll never get a sympathetic ear telling the world you hate your worthless self. You'll get sneers and people will call you a Drama Queen. Stop being so childish, get over yourself, your life's not that bad.
No, because a hundreds of people in the world have it hundreds of times worse. Poor people, sick people, people who have lost their loved ones. Those starving kids in Africa they always show with flies crawling over their bloated stomachs. Gross, and sad, and so much worse off than me.
Does this make me stop feeling sorry for myself, and get off my ass to donate 40 cents a day?
No.
It only makes me feel like more of a loser as I sit in my empty apartment, listening to soft music and feeling sorry for myself even more.
God I am such a pathetic loser.
I settled for playing Dashboard Confessional, on low enough not to wake up anyone else at three in the morning, but loud enough that I could hear it no matter where I went. Like that says much; it's not a big apartment.
I cleaned out the fridge. I cleaned out the cupboards. I did all the dishes, wiped down the counters, cleaned my bedroom, and went anal enough to stack my magazines on the coffee table - in alphabetical order. To match the DVD's on the stand, of course.
Lame, lame, lame.
But it was all I could do to keep my mind of the tingle in my arm, the ache, the want, the utter need.
I know a lot of people think cutters are attention whores. Not many people realize how much of an addiction it is. How it becomes necessary. How it's the first thing you crave when things go wrong, when you're sad or lonely, or mad, and how ignoring it doesn't make it go away. Only makes it stronger.
How it can become incapacitating.
How it's all you can do not to find something. Anything will do. And if you take that away, we will find something else. Our own nails, teeth.
It's scary just how much I need this.
I tried to be strong, cleaning the house and organizing everything, but did that really help? No, of course not, because, let's say it all together now!
I SUCK.
There's so much around the house that would be so easy. Knives in the kitchen, razors in the bathroom, the edge of the coffee table if I brought my wrist down hard.
See?
Pathetic.
I couldn't help but think, if I had some of Craig's weed, I wouldn't need to tear myself open.
Of course, all that did was make me think of him. How mad he got, and how he saw that... god.
That as it.
I stood up and walked into the kitchen.
Like it even mattered.
The only people who cared were gone...
That's how I ended up standing by the fridge, bare feet on cool linoleum, hand on the phone, ring on the line.
Bad, bad, bad Ellie. Stop now!
I never listen to myself.
"Hello?"
My heart leapt, breath frozen in my chest.
He was out of breath, like he'd been running, or laughing really hard, and I heard music and laughter behind him. A party.
A mistake to call.
"Hello?" he said again, more persistently.
"Who is it, babe?" a woman said.
"Wrong number, I guess," Sean's voice said, and the phone clicked down, ringing in my ear.
It was a blind fury, a frenzy, a million things at once, and somehow they all flow into one memory, of me standing at the sink with a paring knife in hand, blood dripping slowly into the sink, splashing red on silver, washing away in the cool rush from the faucet.
Tears fell down my face, and I hated myself more for crying.
Big girls don't cry.
They don't cry.
They get even.
His name was James, and I barely knew him.
It wasn't hard to find a party, when I really tried. I remembered John, and took a stroll by his house, hoping against hope, and sure enough, there was a party raging on. People inside were drunk or high, dancing or kissing, laughing and talking.
It wasn't hard to find a boy.
I snagged a semi-cute brunette and pulled him into the shadows.
I had to lean up to whisper in his ear.
Apparently he liked what I had to say, because he lead me upstairs to this dark room, and shut the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing with finality.
It wasn't at all how I had pictured it. Dreamed it like all girls do.
I didn't want to lose my virginity in someone else's house, with someone I didn't know.
But that was the only way I knew how to get back at Sean.
And until I was beneath this sweating, grunting body, twisted in the sheets of a bed that belonged to someone I had never met, I didn't realize that this wouldn't hurt Sean.
Maybe when he found out, and even then it was a long shot. If he had moved on, he had moved on, and this was nothing. Not to mention the only way he'd find out, was if I called back to Wasaga Beach and blatantly spelled it out for him.
So I shut my eyes and pretended it wasn;t happening, but everything was happening so fast, too fast, such a rushed pace I couldn't seem to follow the events.
There was no foreplay.
There was a kiss that tasted of alcohol and cigarettes.
There were hands roughly pawing at my chest as he pushed my skirt around my waise. There was pain as he pushed himself inside me without warning.
There was only a loss of innocence I should have stopped.
But I only laid back and let it happen.
Take that, Sean.
Take it, please.
And when he came, he fell against my chest, heavy, dead weight that made it hard to breathe.
I could see the shadows on the wall, painting out a picture I could have made so beautiful, if I were only writing this about another girl.
On my way out, I spotted John. I knew he recognized me from the nod he gave. And when I asked him if he had anything he could give me, he smiled and led me to his room.
"What exactly are you looking for?" he asked.
"I want something..." I paused. "I want something that will make me numb."
He stared at me for a moment.
"Your skirt's crooked," he said without emotion, turning to a drawer in his dresser.
"Craig would kill me if I gave some of this shit to you," he sounded a bit wary.
"Somehow I doubt that," I muttered, kicking at the floor with my boots.
"Here," he said, passing me a baggie.
"What is it?" I asked, staring at the contents.
"More potent stuff," he said. "First one's on the house. This is all I can give you without him kicking my ass, or getting you into the big leagues, okay? So take it, and if you want more, ask Craig for my number."
I looked at the baggie, back at him. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me, kid," he spat. "Get outta here before I change my mind, okay?"
I got.