For as long as I can remember people around me praised my writing. I never thought I was that great.
It was just my escape
My escape from myself. From the pain. From the feelings of worthlessness. And for a while, it worked.
It dragged me away from the bottles and razor blades. Away from the drugs and self medication. Into the world of neon and crazy lights. Into what gave me a purpose again.
Until the writing went away.
I don't know how to tell you things. The people I'm supposed to trust with my life. How am I supposed to tell you that you're perfect little girl grew up to hate everything about herself?
That I feel alone ALL the time.
That the real reason I want to leave isn't because I hate how small my hometown is; that it's because of you.
Because the yelling makes me feel worthless again.
That it brings back thoughts I thought that I had long forgotten.
That it brings back the self medication I thought I had gained control over.
that it makes me wish it had all ended four years ago
