eight weeks // larry

Entry 1

dear diary?

no. that just sounds stupid.

I'm not sure how to start this but my mum bought me a "diary" and suggested that I start writing in it because it could help if I wrote down my thoughts instead of inflicting pain on myself.

I don't go to school anymore, even though I should, I don't. I dropped out a year ago when I was sixteen because I couldn't handle all of the pressure.

I'm just a really unhappy person. I hate every bone in my body. I'm literally worthless and the only reason that I haven't attempted to end my life is because of my mum and my best friend Zayn. If I died she would be ruined. I don't want to leave her with a burden of her dead child. No one should have to bury their own baby it should be the other way around.

So instead I inflict pain on myself. I cut and burn and bruise myself and sometimes I drown myself in alcohol because physical pain is relieving and a lot better than mental pain. When there's blood dripping down my arm, stinging and burning, I feel alive. When I take a lighter that I have hidden behind my dresser to my thigh, my fatty skin burning, it all feels okay.

and even when those aren't enough, I punch my thighs and my stomach until purple bruises develop.

I haven't hurt myself in a couple days, you see my mum just happened to walk in on me cutting in the bathroom, she started crying and tried to blame herself by saying that she was a 'bad mother' for not noticing that me wearing sweaters all the time wasn't just because I liked the style.

After I calmed her down and insisted that I was fine we came up with a compromise because there was no way in hell that I was going to therapy. I refuse to make my mum pay a ridiculous price just so I can tell my problems to some stupid therapist who doesn't give two shits about me and only wants to take my mums hard earned money.

The compromise was for me to write in this little leather journal everyday for eight weeks for 'therapy' instead of hurting myself so I could release the demons in my mind without having to rip my skin open.

I honestly don't know how to write down my thoughts so I'm pretending that I'm writing to someone who cares about my everyday shitty life and my pathetic feelings, maybe later on someone can read all of my thoughts after I throw myself in front of a truck.