I need to get a grip. I change my outside enough that it change the structure inside, and then the outside changes again but for the worst and what’s left is a crumbling half-person demoted to a most pathetic state. Then I punish the outside with pain and destroy the inside with words, feelings, and by not doing anything. I’ve never liked me. I liked what I thought I could be. No one likes me. They like what I have built to be “me.” Who could like this, this pissed off do-no-wrong-but-do-no-good-either party-foul?

Reverting sounds so lovely, and sitting with myself watching the pale lines on this skin disappear helps me see through the makeshift self. It’s a sickness and it’s a tired only one type of sleep can fix. It’s a loop of self-hatred and self-love-hatred and disgust for everything regarding everything.

I hide underground while the me I strive to be mingles with my friends and get As and calls it “dieting.” It’s not good enough. I stare at nothing all day while I contemplate my inability to do anything besides stare at nothing. A simple streak of sunlight falling over specks of dust (or something as painfully, simply, grievously similar) has me captivated and for the rest of the day I can’t get out of It. The funk I call just being out of it. The rest of the time I spend recovering. Pulling the shroud on again and functioning just as well as I can without drawing too much attention to myself, usually by drawing attention to myself.

It’s gross and the only way to make it better is to make it worse first. To destroy all I’ve worked so hard for. To show the raw and bitter Ashley we’ve all learned to hate. To fix it is to show how unfixable it is. Hopeless and helpless and that’s just how it’s going to have to be.


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