Sunday, September 19, 2010

Off the top of my head at this point in time.

     She sits on her bed, attempting to read her new book, but she cannot concentrate.  She places a bookmark between the pages and shuts the book.  She just got home from the movies with her friends, but she didn't have any real fun.  She tried to talk, to laugh, to have a good time, but she felt like the other three saw right through her.  She looked down at hands, examining them for any sign of translucence.  Nope.  All she saw was pale white skin and brown freckles.
     She looked out the window at the cloudy gray sky and thought to herself, why did she try anymore?  What was the point of trying so hard if she was just going to get knocked down again and again?  She always tried to get back up, but as soon as she was standing straight and tall, she fell to her knees once again.  In that very moment, she almost gave up and stayed flat on the ground.  But she remembered what her mother had told her that very day in the kitchen, while she was seconds away from breaking down.  Her mother said, "I love you, and you are beautiful."  Even though she herself didn't believe that latter, she believed the former was true.  Her mother had noticed that she was not herself, but neither mother nor daughter wanted to admit it.  They existed in blissful ignorance of her near-depression, or possibly full-on depression.
     She knew that at some point, if she didn't get help, she would just quit altogether.  So maybe, sometime, she would try talking to her mother about her problem... even though it would nearly kill her to admit something this extreme was wrong with her.  She hated feeling so helpless...

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Again, in government class. And partly in online learning class.

     She feels legitimately sick to her stomach.  She forced herself to look decent today, with hair fixed, a black mini skirt that hugged her thighs, and a white wife beater that accentuated her cleavage.  She wore the jewelry her mother had bought her; jingly with fleur de lis, and earrings to match.  She even put on makeup.
     Yet still, she felt like everyone was ignoring her.  She felt like she wasn't really there.  It made her feel like disappearing altogether, if she wasn't already invisible.  Even teachers never really heard her.
     What she wouldn't give to be back where she came from, back where she felt like she belonged.  It made her feel even worse to think about how happy she would be if she were back there.
     There's been so much change around her, she doesn't know how to cope anymore.  She used to be able to smile, even though underneath it all, she wanted to burst into tears and never stop.  And what hurt her the most was that her own mother, who claimed to know her so well, didn't seem to take notice of the fake smiles or the way she never did anything but sleep and go to school.
     What was she supposed to do?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Written in Government class.

     She lays her head on her left arm, which is resting on her desk.  She feels sick; numb.  She begins scratching the back of her left hand, but not because there is an itch.  Actually, scratching her hand hurts.  But she keeps scratching, because finally, for the first time today, she is feeling something besides numbness.
     She's been scratching for nearly a minute.  She raises her head and looks at her hand.  Three angry red marks appear among the freckles on her skin.  A voice in her head tells her to stop, not to do it anymore.  So, for the moment, she doesn't scratch.  The red marks disappear, but the area still stings.  
     The teacher asks the class to grade their quizzes, hand them in, and begin writing notes, all of which she does without much thought.  
     But she keeps scratching.  Because if she stops, she's afraid she'll stop feeling at all...

     Eventually she stops scratching and the stinging goes away.  However, she is all too aware of the numbness that is left behind.  She begins scratching again, constantly, and when she stops for more than an hour and the stinging won't go away, she knows she has succeeded in her task.  


A friend of mine posted this on Facebook a while back... I'm not entirely sure where he got it.  But I am going to use it.  Credit goes to Ryan H.

"She writes for her family,
She writes for her friends,
She writes so she never
     has to pretend.
She writes what she thinks,
She writes what she feels,
She writes so people
     will always be real.
She writes when she fails,
She writes when she grows,
She writes in third person
     so no one will know."

Don't take this to mean that everything written here, which, after this post, will be written entirely in third person, is about me or my life.  Some things may come from my imagination, some may have actually happen throughout the course of my life.  Stories will only be in third person because I favor anonymity.  Don't get the wrong idea from anything.  I have a large imagination.  That is my disclaimer.