Lies took the elevator.
Truth took the stairs.
Both arrived and met Revelation.
Jane killed a family in a car accident. Depressive and accustomed to self-harm, she decides to go back to where her life toppled upside down. Jane doesn't know what to e...
And a slight lack of empathy sprinkled here and there; I've never put myself in other people's shoes because I'm still trying to fit mine.
In plain language, it makes me a self-centered freak.
These things sum up my personality; according to therapists, I was asking for help.
Eh, seriously, like taking drugs was my cry for help, okay whatever.
To be honest, I think even doctors comfort themselves by saying that addicts need help, but they don't know how to ask.
No one wants to hear that I was a stupid teen who just wanted to have fun because it's nasty, and it would mean that I'm anything except human.
And this terrifies them.
The thing is, I'm a horrifying being; I don't realize I'm doing wrong till it's too late, and I needed to kill three people to understand that what I was doing was fucked up.
Sometimes I think what tortures me the most is being seen as a victim; even after what I did, people pitied me, and that hurts. It's a weird paradox, where I'm aware of my wrongs and awaiting divine punishment.
It hurts so bad I stopped eating, but people pitied me more than before.
Anorexia for me represented a form of punishment as I deprived myself of food and especially meat. The smell of any cooked flesh disgusts me.
Then it became a control issue. If I could control my hunger, I could regain control of my life.
Everyone jumped in with: "Jane, you must eat."
So I ate and ate, only to be more disgusted, for I lost control and indulged myself. The moments where I enjoyed food would have me vomiting with guilt.
Yeah, addictions suck whatever they are.
What's worse is that twisted people like me are active in innovating on the torture method. I found another addiction to numb the pain, scratching.
I scratch myself, it doesn't sound like something terrible, but I scratch myself to the bone where no one can see. Skin and blood fill my nails, clogging them like dirt.
When naked, you'd think I fought a tiger.
When I do that, I'm satisfied with the pain, but also, the sight of blood reassures me. To stop, I cut my nails, but I claw my skin till it burns by irritation.
Get up, Jane; I sigh and get out of bed. Yes, taking a shower can save your life. Doing that and all the steps that follow help me.
Washing my hair, brushing my teeth, getting dressed occupies me, but also, each step pushes me to go to the following. And just by doing these things one after the other without rushing, I can finish a day and start the next.
That's how I've lived for the last five years; following everyday gestures keeps me alive.
I'm ready, and I go downstairs.
My dad is wailing my name for I don't know what reason. We have a visitor, which is rare now. It seems my parents have stopped inviting the neighbors to vent their success; I guess they too have got bored with the cheap thrills.
Boasting is also a dumb addiction; I'm glad they appear to have made it through, but my father seems to have still the late-night outs going for him.
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