Stay Strong: The Diaries of a Cutter. (On Hold!)

Stay Strong: The Diaries of a Cutter.

Stay Strong: The Diaries of a Cutter.

~Carter~

Y’know that girl with her nose in her notebook, always writing or reading; the girl with her headphones on all the time, that girl has never known what it’s like to be confident or happy. She’s the girl you’d see walking down the street but never pay much attention too. She’s the girl whose last picked for teams in school. She’s the girl who’s always dressed poorly. The girl who would just ignore someone would make fun of her, not knowing weather she’s okay or if she’s dying inside. That’s the thing, you don’t know. You don’t know if she’s in pain or if what you spat at her is cutting deep inside, because it is. It is cutting deep down and it hurts. How do I know, you ask. That girl with her nose in a notebook and headphones on is me.

When people call me names I pretend it doesn’t hurt and act like I’m not phased by them but I really am. I worry about that every time someone behind me laughs or is whispering that they’re talking about me. I worry if I’m not pretty enough or if I laugh at a joke to much or if my voice is too loud or I talk too much. I worry and stress about everything, everything but my music. Music is the most right thing I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s the only thing that feels right in my life; it’s been there for me since the accident.

The accident, it’s my fault. Since then I went to live with my twenty-five year old brother, Zane. He lives with his fiancée, Jewels in Portsmouth, Vermont. I moved all the way from New Haven, Connecticut to live with him. It’s been two years since the accident since then I’ve been diagnosed with manic depression, bipolar, and I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. People keep cramming illnesses down my throat just like the pills. I’m on two different sleeping pills, anti-anxiety pills, anti-depressants, pills to help me with being bipolar, I feel like I’m more medicated than a sick person. And that’s why my brother sent me to Portland, Maine. Well actually he sent me to Ocean View Treatment Facility which just so happens to be in Portland, Maine.

My name is Carter Lynn Ashlyn. I’m born in a summer haze in nineteen-ninety-five, so that makes me seventeen. My brother is my only family and if he says I need help, then I’ll seek help even though there’s nothing to fix. I’m not gonna sit in a room full of strangers and say ‘Hi my name is Carter and I’m a cutter.’ No, I’m not going to do that, it’s stupid. So is the reason why I’m going to Ocean View. I’ll go but I won’t enjoy it.