Child murderer

My soul

I'm not going to lie, I was no way near normal that that point. You guys might find me a hypocrite for saying that that boy was different than me, and in all fairness he wasn't that much different at all, but at least I was trying.

This place wasn't about how much progress you made towards your recovery, it was about your mind set. I had a lot of work to do, but at least I was trying.

I knew that I was never going to get better. I hardly slept and when I did I had horrible nightmares. My weight was almost never stable and I still had days where I felt nothing, and on those days I would just be left alone.

It was hard. And I still struggled with everyday things. I still questioned the meaning of life daily, and I still had disturbing thoughts. Days merged into nights and nights into days, over and over again. Minutes to hours, hours to days , days to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. It was all a blur of showers and short distant conversation, dull colours and musty smells of the cramped rooms.

Life was dull. Life lacked any life. Life was a blur of too much yet too little. My thoughts constantly contradicting eachother, their tiny but violent conflicts within my mind kept me lying awake at night looking at the grey ceiling with these tiny bumps scattered across. I knew the pattern of these bumps better than I knew the pattern of the veins on my wrist, or of the freckles scattered on and around my nose. I laid there for hours on end staring emotionlessly at the bad paint work above.

I was a ghost of a girl that I used to know well. I was merely the remains of the happy yet disturbed young child in that flowery dress I was forced to wear, and those blonde pig tails had now turned into a mousy brown mess.

And after a lot of hard work, at 15, I regained my soul.

~Sneaked a cheeky song lyric in that~
~chapter *proud* Hope you enjoyed!~