Self Destruction is Such a Pretty Little Thing

Hot To The Touch, Cold On The Inside

4/13/16

I do not remember a time when I didn't hate myself. I don't remember a time when I didn't come home and rot in my own hatred. Every day I come home and hate myself for things I said, the things I wore, the things I didn't say, the way I look. Always the way I look. I've never liked my body. I remember when I was very young my sister told me that I needed to lose weight or I would just get fatter and fatter and by the time I was her age I would be the size of a car. I remember as (about) a six year old staying in her room with her exercising in the middle of the summer trying to lose weight because I thought maybe that was why nobody really talked to me. I remember making myself throw up at home when I was in elementary school. I remember hearing kids making jokes about eating disorders when we first started learning about them. There are days now when I can't force myself to eat because I am so disgusted with myself, and there are days when I eat too much food to even think about, and days when I eat that much and throw it all up a few minutes later.

I hate the stupid words that come out of my mouth even more, though. I lie in bed hating myself over words said hours, days, weeks, years earlier. Cringing and shuddering and hating.
Enough about hate though.

I remember the first time I found out about the drugs. It was Cinco de Mayo 2010ish? Making me about ten in the sixth grade, that sounds about right anyway. We (my parents and I, my sister wasn't living with us at this point) had just left some Mexican restaurant where my parents had drunk way more than they should have to even think about driving, and we're heading to a family friends house. We arrived and my mother pulls a bundle (of weed) about the size of a tennis ball out of her purse, right there in the open, right there in front if her child. And my father said, I remember this distinctly, "You have two of those, right?" My stomach dropped, I felt nauseated, the alcohol and cigarettes were bad enough. But this? This was illegal! I could not believe my parents would do something like this. Boy was in in for a shock in three coming years.
A few months later, a tradition is born. My sister is once again living with us and I go into my parents bathroom to get some qtips or something. When I open the door something heavy drops to the floor I walk in and call to Jessica confused because I have no idea what I'm looking at. A small bundle of weed, a bowl, and a heavy metal scale were balanced in a robe pocket and when I entered they had clattered to the floor. And so periodically, even now, my sister and I checked my parents bathroom and closets for new additions. I don't remember when I first found out about the cocaine but I do know what we found last week. We were rummaging in my parents closet as per usual seeing I'd we could fine new paraphernalia. We know about the shoe box filled with little baggies and a mirror and straws and a few razor blades and old credit cards. We had almost given up when Jess spots a red and black duffel bag neither of us had seen before and what he found made me sick. Three or four plastic grocery bags filled with empty baggies dusted in fine white power, several pen boxes filled with hollow pens and straws, razor blades upon razor blades upon razor blades, strainers, stuff neither of us could identify, empty pill bottles, and the real kicker, what could only be assumed to me a crack pipe. A cracked pipe. No longer are we in the world of pure glamorous cocaine, no we've fallen into crack smoking. It was so much worse than I expected. I had to leave the room. I almost threw up I was so disgusted and revulsed.
I felt exactly the way I titled this chapter. Hot to the touch, cold, empty, dead, emotionless, stony on the inside.

Hot to the Touch, Cold On The Inside- Fall Out Boy