Cut myself last night. My wrist is a mess. Had a panic attack today.
I’m losing weight like crazy. Starting dance classes has raised my metabolism so much, and the exercise is making pounds drop off. I’m still the fattie in both my classes, and I was at our social too, but not enough to get punished for it. This is my new goal: to never be in the fatties group.
I’m going to lose as much as I can before our Showcase and the competition in week 9. I will be skinny and perfect like A.I.
Year one of university:
I made my effort, I tried to have a reasonable, honest, adult discussion with you about the problems we’ve been having and you refused to continue with it. You’ve learnt nothing and nothing has changed; I refuse to wait any longer for you to grow up and deal with your problems. You can call me if you decide you care enough to actually talk our problems through, but otherwise, let me get on with my life as an adult and stop giving me false hope. I’m tired of all your bullshit.
You don’t even know what’s wrong and you don’t even care.
I’ll carve your fucking name into my skin and let you see what you’ve done.
And so the planning begins.
I know usually people wish people would care about them
But I wish people wouldn’t care about me
That way nothing stands between me and suicide
I still feel like shit. I still want to die. I had hoped, naively, that finishing the resits would make things better. It hasn’t.