Sometimes, I think that the only reason I’m still alive is because I don’t know what’s going to happen after I die, and that scares me. Will it be Heaven, Hell, or a never-ending blackness? I don’t know. Part of me wishes that I knew and another part is glad that I don’t because if I did, then I probably wouldn’t be here right now, which depending on the day, could be a good or a bad thing. Good more often than not.

When I think about myself in relation to other people, I often think that they would be much better of if I just weren’t there. Wherever I am, bad stuff seems to always follow, generally fighting. This occurs a lot with my parents, which I realize is completely normal. It just seems to me that I am more trouble than I’m worth and they would be much better off without me in their lives. Everyone would. I never say the right thing, never wear the right thing, wear too much make-up, too little make-up, don’t eat enough food, eat too much food, the list goes on. Everything is such a hassle. I am such a hassle.

I remember thinking, “If I lost weight, then they will love and accept me.” So that’s what I did. I lost thirty pounds in about two months. I loved it. I wanted to lose more. Finally they were noticing me. Finally they were showing some sort of love and concern for me. The only bad thing about this was that I felt like I was sick, every single day. My head, back and stomach would hurt. If I ate too much red meat I would throw up. I was way more tired than usual. I always wanted to be alone and sleep. I wanted to die. I wanted to die because nothing I ever did was good enough for anybody. It wasn’t good enough for my friends, parents or teachers. And it certainly wasn’t good enough for me.