Up until the sixth grade, I tried to be perfect... for everyone. I made perfect grades, I acted like a perfect little person, but inside, all along, it was driving me crazy. I never knew how to act, I didn't know who I really was.
Then in the seventh grade, I turned against everyone. I hated everything. Nothing was worth anything anymore. I don't even remember most of what I did that year because I was to busy hating it.
Eight grade rolled around, and by this time, I was feeling guilty about everything that had ever happened in my life. I started going to ccd classes to make my confirmation (Catholic) and I decided I was a very evil person. I was constantly praying for all my sins. I hated it, I just wanted to die, I never even knew what was going on because I was to busy praying. That summer was horrible. I layed around listening to music and crying, by the time my ninth grade year came around. I was ready for a fresh start. No more worrying. I couldn't take it anymore.
And finally, ninth grade got here. At first, it all seemed so exciting, I started chasing after this new guy who had just come from a private school. Of course, nothing happened with that, nothing like that ever happens for me. Then I started to like his best friend, whom I hated, just a year before. I claimed to love him. He didn't want me either. Neither one of them ever talked to me. I got very depressed. More depressed than I had ever been. I started writing more morbid poetry. Sometimes even suicidal poetry. Of course, I had never done anything to physically hurt myself, until...
One day, the poetry just wasn't enough for me anymore. I needed something bigger to let out my feelings. Something that would actually do some harm. So I mad myself throw up. I had always been concerned about weight anyway. No big deal, just some action.
But my life changed then, then I started hanging around with an old friend. We started talking all the time, and my life seemed a little bit brighter. We had alot in common. Most everything really. For now, I guess we can call him, Alex. Alex would call me everyday. When I was or tried to do something to hurt myself, Alex would save me. Everything I was depended on Alex. And I started to like Alex. But I never thought he would like me.
Then one day, as a joke, we pretended we were going out, no one really believed us. Actually I guess, no one really cared. It was all very strange. Because both of us liked what we were doing, but we didn't really want to deal with it, because we were just "friends".
So much for dealing. I guess it dealt with itself. We did stuff together. Romantically. It was cool and I was happy, but I still did stuff to myself. I think it would really worry him. One day, Alex called me and told me that it was over. I couldn't deal with that. I got a razor and cut big lines down my leg. I still have the scars. It was horrible, but I pretended everything was okay. More pain. But it felt good to know I was doing something wrong to myself. Like I deserved it.
At first, me and Alex still talked, then we drifted further apart. I couldn't deal with anything anymore. Any little thing would throw me over the edge. Insanity. I needed a way to escape. Thank God no one offered me drugs. I'm grateful for that.
As the year started ending, I was able to calm down some. Try and pull my life back together. I was still hurting. Alot. Then summer came. At first, I was devastated because I wouldn't see Alex anymore, then I was glad. I stopped hurting myself.
If you want to know about reconstruction. Go back home and pick reconstruction.
