My eyes adjusted to the light as I lift myself up out of bed. I was a failure. Softly, I tip-toed out of my room and slipped into the bathroom. I lift the back of the toilet up and grabbed my black box. I picked up a shiny razor, and rolled up my left sleeve. I placed the sharp metal object on my wrist. Then, I slowly dragged it across. It was relieve, it made me calm. The crimson liquid slid down my arm and dripped into the bathroom sink. Another scar, another fucking day gone. My whole body is covered in them. My thighs, legs, arms and stomach. Pain is like a drug.
I sat in the bath, covered in my blood. Crying, and thinking. I was always upset, I know I have depression but I don't understand how its possible to be this dead inside. I feel like all the joy and happiness is being sucked out of me. Its agony, cutting myself, yet I still do it. I don't quite know why. I'm bipolar, anorexic and bulimic as well as having depression, anxiety, agoraphobia and i'm suicidal. I mean, what isn't wrong with me? Then, people think i have everything because apparently I'm pretty thin and have high grades. I am not pretty or thin, and I study to take my mind off of cutting.
