When my Life Faded Black

Copyright, Ticia

I’ve just started discovering myself. Finally accepting the fact that I hate fashion magazines and pop music. I just kinda went along, floating by with whatever was popular. Even though I terribly wasn’t. It wasn’t until about 2 years ago that I actually started discovering my self and ripping away the fakeness that consumed my life for so long. I did *gasp* illegal things, partied, listened to heavy metal/rock and lost my religion. I lost my big V at age 17 to a friend and have been depressed for going on 2 years. Doesn’t sound like a happy transformation, eh? I am happier in a way, at least I’m not fake anymore. I’m not afraid to be myself. That’s all that I’ve gotten out of this shit.

Last summer at college I was alone. Everyone left me (again) for a weekend of solitude in my dorm room. I found myself digging my nails into my forearm. Finally I broke a leg razor and made a couple small incisions. I felt horribly good. I felt so desperate, yet relieved. I cried because of the shame, yet I did it again. My cat scratches have gotten deeper and more frequent. I’ve told my family and a few close friends yet no one ever intervenes. Who would have thought that’s the only thing that could make me stop. Some sincere concern. I also kind of like the shock when I first tell people or they accidently find out. Last night my boyfriend saw my arm and just said “oh, jesus…” like he was shocked or some shit. He knew I did it. He just forgot to care. I guess it’s getting worse even though I’m in therapy now. Yeah. That’s my lame ass life.


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