I spent my whole life trying to make myself better, all of my worst decisions were made with the best intentions. I can try to spend an entire blog entry rattling off the thoughtful advice my father has offered, but then, this would turn, like everything else in my life, into a lie. My father never had any clever quotes to offer, no sudden epiphanies, I had to come up with those on my own, and when you have to come up with words to weather the storm you've created, there isn't much hope in those words. I have often talked myself into the worst decisions because they seemed helpful. The thing is, when you try to comfort yourself, the only thing you feel is shame, shame that you can't seem to gather enough of yourself together to get through one complicated life situation.
I used to have it good before, or at least it felt good. My life was sewn together, like a finely handcrafted sweater, with the separation of my parents, a stitch came loose, the blame my father placed on me, along with the death of my grandfather, the only stable father figure in my left began the unraveling of it and the pressure of school left me cold and naked. My skin is all I have left, and I have begun to destroy even that.
The only honest thing I have left to say is that, I failed my way of the university of my family's choice and now, I'm at the college of everyone else's choice, which is kind of perfect, being that the only reason I'm enrolled at all is to make everyone else happy. I wear lies on my face and speak those lies with my quiet voice. The only truth I have are the scars and cuts I wear on my arms and legs, I figure that if I can't speak the truth, I might as well wear it on myself, before I myself get lost and feel absolutely nothing. I guess it's better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all, I guess. It also makes me better at being wrong because what they don't know won't hurt them, it will only hurt me, and if they don't know this, how can they tell me I'm wrong?
The blood drips down my arm and into the sink, and once again, it overflows with pain, but at least I don't have to carry it inside me for that second. I fear that I'll be found out again, only this time, there won't be an escape. I said I could stop this on my own, but I started this, what makes anyone think I can stop on my own? They all say that the first cut is the deepest, and I guess they're right because once you start, you can't stop, it gets easier and easier to have that slight moment of perfection, that small release of pain, for just a second. The thick skin that grows over the cuts as they heal acts as a metaphor for my life in some ways I guess, I've had to grow stronger, but where those physical wounds heal, the ones I feel never will.
