Outside the Lines (lashton)

(41)

Crying. It's all I do.

Before treatment, I barely ever cried. It's like I didn't truly feel emotions. Even when I watched a scary movie, I had no problem. Didn't scare me at all.

But now? I get scared. It sucks, really. I enjoyed scary movies so much before but now I get scared and it's not as fun.

But the crying is by far the worst. I can't go a day without crying when I'm struggling with something. And right now, I'm really struggling.

I've started cutting again, as I've said before. No one knows because I do it on my thighs and always wear skinny jeans. And skinny jeans aren't the best when you've cut. You can feel the pain each time you take a step.

But sometimes that's good. The pain helps keep my head focused on what's going on around me and away from my thoughts.

Before, I didn't feel pain when I cut on my thighs because my jeans were looser. But now, with the added weight, they cling to me. And that's triggering in itself. I'd buy bigger jeans, but that just means I'll get fatter, which I refuse to let happen.

I'm all alone in my room, four in the morning, feeling tired. Tired and angry. Also bloated. I ate tonight and didn't enjoy a single second of it.

Why do I have to feel this way? Why can't I be skinny and happy like most people? Why do I have to be big and depressing?

"It's not fair," I whisper, tears running down my face, and move the jagged piece of metal against my thigh quickly. But it's not enough tonight. I watch the blood bead up, then put some toilet paper on it to soak it up. I then flush the toilet paper down the toilet, not leaving a trace. Then I pull my sweatpants back up.

It's risky what I'm doing and someone will find out I'm cutting again, but I haven't felt this low for a while. I need something more that will help. Sure, it'll upset the boys, but they should understand that this helps me.

They should understand, but they probably won't.

Oh well.

I sneak into Calum's room, seeing as he's the heaviest sleeper, and go into his bathroom and take his razor. I've been using an electric razor to shave since being hospitalized, so even if I did get an urge to cut, I wouldn't be able to. But the other boys still shave with a classic razor, thank god. Once I have the razor, I quickly but quietly get back to my bathroom attached to my room.

Trying to rip it apart is hard, and I cut my fingers in the progress, but I don't mind because before I know it, three out of four of the razor blades are out. The fourth one won't come out, but I don't mind. I only need one blade. I bundle the broken razor up in toilet paper and dispose of it.

They're gonna notice the razor is missing and they'll know it's you. Better hide the other two blades so you can use them later even when they find out, my mind supplies to me. And of course, I listen to the twisted thought. I hide one in a bundle of white socks, the other between my bed frame, and make my way back into the bathroom.

I stare at the piece of metal and feel relieved. Finally, some real relief from my buzzing head. I pull down my black sweatpants and immediately make a slice in my skin. It beads up quicker this time, being a sharper edge.

Why are you this fucked up, slice.

Why are you so fat? slice.

Why can't you just eat like a normal person? slice.

Each thought brings a new slice, and the thoughts seem to come faster and faster. Usually I try to stay in control and make only a few slices on my skin, but I'm losing it tonight.