Oh God, what have I done?

I did it. I finally got to the point where I did it. It started out as usual--surfing the web and picking at my face at the same time.

And then ... I don't really remember what happened. I got depressed, I got an evil e-mail, I cut myself with my razor. Bad reaction, huh?

If I'm going to hide this then wrists are out. My ankle is okay. I did the worst this morning in the shower. I totally destroyed the side of my knee. Tons of tiny little cuts. Lots of blood. It hurt. But as the pain came, a different type left. It was incredible. The blood was washed off the water and I didn’t cry, I smiled. I'm so mad at myself.

I guess I've finally realized that I'm addicted to hurting myself. I don't like the idea, but I might as well get used to it. I have no intention of stopping.

On the flip side, [x] got back in town. Now [z], who's very religious, wants me to come to her lock in this Friday. A lock in is where you spend the night at the church. I don't want to. She's Korean. Do I look Korean to you?! I don't feel included. I mean, it's her church. My God, I just bought a Bible three weeks ago. The whole thing baffles me.

She's just so damn persistent. When I didn't have a religion I thought I was missing something. But I'm realizing that maybe I wasn't. Maybe God will strike me down for saying such things. I hope not. But quite frankly, I don't care. I don't want another thing to do.

The only reason I want a religion is so I don't stick out that way anymore. But, hell, I'm already the weirdest girl at school, let's keep it that way.

I want to shoot myself for writing Butterfly. Well, as long as I'm suffering, I suppose Natalie will. Damn, she annoys me. Her life is so freakin' perfect. I know, you know, someone's going to save her.

Who's going to save me?

I've come to the conclusion that I'm a stupid, whiny brat. I'm an only child, and spoiled, yet I have to hurt myself. I have everything I want, everything I need. Why the hell is it then, that I force myself into a corner where I can't get out?

This should make for some damn good poetry.

Ever hear 'Fragile?' "Born beneath an angry star, lest we forget how fragile we are." Yes, I know I am fragile. But it's like cutting pushes the limits. I believe I was born under an angry star--my mother. I don't understand her at all. She doesn't understand me. I dislike my father. My cousins all get along great without me because I don't share a common interest. Many, many angry stars.

What if I'm the angry star? That's a thought. Maybe it's me, not them. I must attract torture.

That tiny voice is so strong, and so hard to resist. It tells me that what I'm doing is accepted. That's it's okay . . . 'cut, cut, cut, Malia. Don't be a chicken. Go pick up the razor. That's it.' And before I know what I've done I see blood. It always tells me what to do.

But never what to do after.

I don't understand. Last time there was depression--this time, nothing. Hollowness. I'm still happy. But the pain in my leg is throbbing again. What's wrong with me? I'm a freak. Who else in their right mind would cut themself when everything is looking so good?

Enough of my depressing thoughts for now.
¤ chickchat

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