Cookie Cutter

"I don't cut to feel pain, I cut to make it all go away. It's the only way to become numb, and feel what you've become." ~myself

   Usually, if you're not a cutter, you're a cookie cutter. Everything's the way you "cut" it. You cut little boxes to push people inside to make it easier to deal with them. Kristy's stupid. Meredith's a gymnastic crazy chick. That girl in the corner? She's trouble because nobody bothered to learn her name, or ask why she covers her wrists in silver bracelets. 

   Why not? What did she ever do to you? Wonder why she's crying, in the girl's bathroom, during lunch? Wonder why she seems to hate your guts? Wonder why nothing's ever "normal" around her, that awkward tension in the air when she speaks but you don't know she feels it too. Bet you'd never guess that she hears your "whispers" in the hall, but it's like you're connected to a microphone. But she doesn't have to hear you to know what you think. 

   Just be you. Flip you hair, and show off your manicured nails. Show off your materialism, and your stilettos and your new clothes. Show off the car you got two years before you could drive, but remember to say "that's just my old one".
  Who do you pretend to me? And who are you? I'm nobody. And you know you're important.
   I'm nobody, but I'm so focused on my self.
   I'm selfish.

How Do They See Me?

To them, I must be happy. Obviously perfect, calm, emotionless, happy, blonde beauty. Pretty, perky and perfect.

That's just the girl they see in the mirror. That's just how I look. That's not who I am.

Why are people so wrapped up in their own mess, their own problems that they can't see other people's, even if they are painfully obvious? Even if you go out and say it. Today, I was hanging out with my brother's friend's family. I went to his sister, and I said hello. She says something about me, and I fake a laugh, saying, "I would kill myself before that happened." 

That's so true, but she laughed anyway, and replied, "You're such a bad actor." 

How? What? Why? WTF? 

I'm not lying. I don't want to die, I have stated that myself so many times. But for someone who doesn't want to die, I also want to. I've heard once you're dead, they finally start to listen to you. They finally start to notice what you've done. Look at Vincent Van Gogh. Beethoven. Da Vinci. I'm pretty sure none of their things were worth much until they got buried six feet under. Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear. 

How do you see me? Of course, you've never seen me, but how do you view me? Do you picture me as a girl dressed in black, or someone with fake smiley faces on everything? Do you picture me in the art room drawing hopeless portraits and abstract, or do you picture me in a corner crying? Do you picture me faking a smile everyday of my life, or do you see me not even trying to be what they expect? 
Everyone of those is true. Depends who you are, depends how many scars of mine you've seen, and how many you've been the reason for.
Depends what you know and what you don't. If I have a need to impress you, I'm going to make you see a smiley girl. If you're no one to me, and all I can see is who you couldn't be, then I'm going to be myself, and you're going to run away or maybe stay and become you I thought you could never be.

But how do they see us? DO they see through our smiles, and just pretend not to notice because it's too hard to face the reality that it's not all rainbows and sunshine and happiness, unless you've lived through the storm, unless you've lived through the night, unless you've lived through the sadness. 

And I'm not sure if I will.

The Club Of The Cutters

"I cut myself." It's so simple to say, so easy to tell everyone. And I should. Tell them that I cut, because the easiest way to keep a secret is to to tell it to everyone you know, but make them think you're joking.

Everyone knows the girl in the mirror, but they don't know me. 

Everyone knows me, but I'm not what they see. 

Everyone knows her, but she's who I'll never be.

So I tried, for a awhile. And I cried, tried to smile. 

It never worked. Underneath the surface, demons lurked. 

And they came out, sometimes when I had a knife.

They were the ones who taught me how to end my life. 

How many people will watch their friends slowly die and not know a thing?


I am going to be posting several story fragments written by moi about people with the same problem and I think I will be mostly centered on The Club Of The Cutters which I am debating about whether I should change the name of this blog to.

Summary: Mara is found out by a boy who came to an alley to do the same thing. And then they figure out that in their pretty little picture perfect town, there are other people who don't exactly feel like they should be part of that picture. They create a club, where they can be themselves and they don't have to hide anything.

Here's To Never Growing Up

   You know, I'm pretty sure we had it right in kindergarten. Girls stay away from boys, boys stay away from girls. They have cooties. And then in high school, when it changed, we learned the definition of heartbreak, the sadly most invasive part of life. 
   It just made it so much easier, didn't it? 
   When did I start cutting? Fourth grade. I know, I was a youngster, but if my life was that bad then, how is now? Worse, obviously, because it never seems to get better. 
   Why should we grow up? As a little girl, I asked my parents, when will I grow up, and be like you? But now, as I'm older, I've realized it's so freaking stupid! My parents aren't the role models I thought they were. I'm not the person I'd thought I'd be. I was quite sure, as a five year old, that I'd be a princess by now, and I'd be far away from my unfair parents arguing. 
   My parents aren't divorced, before you ask. They should be, but they can't seem to agree, or even scream at each other long enough to divorce. I live with my mom, and my brother.
   I spent my whole childhood wishing to be older, but now I am, and this s*** sucks. For all the kids out there, we stopped checking for monsters under our beds, when we realized they were inside us. I used to go weeks without crying.Growing up means wishing there was someone to kiss you in the rain. Growing up means pressure, pain, seeing people die. Not only on the outside, and not always other people. 
   If you could read what's in my heart, you would be in tears. 
   I'm sorry, you can't be Barbie when you grow up, unless you get so much plastic surgery that you wipe away all of your faults, and then you notice the monster on the inside that gets so discouraged when you're not her. 
  I'm never going to be who I planned I would be. I've accepted that... in a way. 
  Don't grow up. Getting older is not an excuse to change. Just don't put up their expectations, and you won't have to deal with being still alive but not for long. You won't have to deal with wishing you had everything you don't have. Just stay forever young, because here's not never ever ever growing up. Just stay forever, stay forever young.  And you won't have to say sorry for not being enough as someone who you aren't and will never be. You'll just be that little person with no scars and no pain except being mad that Spongebob isn't running this afternoon.  
Here's to never growing up.


  

Can You Love My Cuts?

    I have scars on my body, stories I'll never tell. I've got secrets that are just bursting from my lips, silently, or out loud. But the problem or the solution is that I'm never with anyone when I scream my problems, when I' scream my secrets. I hide everything- not only the pain that you've caused, but how much a little thing could affect someone. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm not skinny enough. I'm not girly enough. I'm not smart enough, because apparently if I don't spend every waking moment reading, I'm dumb. I'm stupid.
   Well, I've got news for you, Mom. I'm in Advanced Maths, regardless of the fact that I hate it. I'm in Advanced Classes for every class. But I'm still stupid, aren't I?
   Yes. Of course.
   All my life, I've wanted to run away. Show them. I've wanted to scream. Yell. Show them my scars, yell that it's their fault. Make a big deal out of something, anything. Do something I want, just once. I wanted something drastic to happen, like my father to die, and I could run to California or Alaska or something. I could do it. I know I can. I could bring everything I care about.
   But what do I care about? I'm not sure. I care about less than most people, other than numbing myself. If I ran away, I could camp out at some library and use the computer and read books there and stash some snacks from their book group luncheons and dinners. Or I could get a job a McDonald's the second I turn fifteen, or maybe I'd meet a group of other runaways and we'd become friends or some **** like that.
   Who would want to be friends with a girl with more cuts than friends, more razors than confidence, more pain than beauty? No one.
   And that's what scares me, because don't want to be forever alone. If you've read my earlier posts, you may remember how I take a fancy to my brother's best friend. I've always liked his friends, because you know: Two years older, smarter, happier.... But I feel like this is different. I actually partly care what he thinks, I'm always trying to look good around him, I make myself comfortable around his family, friendly even. It's like I'm a different person around him, and I don't get it. It makes me forget about everything for awhile, especially because his mother is my mom's best friend, so we always see each other, and he goes out of his way to say hi to me and be nice, unlike every other human being I've met.
   Even he doesn't seem to notice my cuts, my deep-sinking pain-and he's been in the same room as me while a had a deep cut bleeding through my sweatshirt.
   I don't want to live in a mental institution, but I feel like it may be not my choice if any one finds out who I am and calls a SUICIDE HOTLINE or something.
   Which reminds me. I don't want you guys to die. Because then I'll be completely and utterly alone, even more than I was before.
   I know it's so pathetic that I keep on repeating "I don't want" and "I want" over and over. I'm pathetic, and selfish, I know. That's why I'm cutter. I want to be able to control myself and my life, maybe by cutting it short. There it is again.

 I WANT, I WANT, I WANT, I WANT BUT THAT'S CRAZY 

I WANT, I WANT, I WANT, BUT THAT'S NOT ME

 I WANT TO BE LOVED BY YOU (but that's never gonna happen).

    Who could love someone who's dead inside, practically? Who could love someone who understands the quote:  I don't know why they call it heartbreak? Every other part of my body feels broken, too. ?

Who could love someone so imperfect? 

   The problem with cuts is that there's so many problems underneath that it just doesn't work to keep putting band aids over them. And I know, I have to learn to deal with mine before someone else can. 

   So I doubt I'll ever have anyone, especially the people who I wish I had, because they deserve so much more.

Painting With Blood

Stare at the picture. It's beautifully painful, artistically killing me. You tell me not to draw on my skin, because of ink poisoning, but what if I use a knife?

Why Can't You Hear?

    I understand what it feels like to be mute. I'm screaming on the inside. I'm screaming on the outside. You they just don't hear me. I'm in a parking lot with hundreds of people, and nobody seems to hear a thing. You don't hear me. See those slits on my wrists? Or don't, even when I'm practically showing you. You don't want to see the truth, I suppose.
    I don't really want to die- I'm just in pain, and physically hurting feeling that pain you feel inside as you heart dies is the best way to become numb and not have to. I was sitting there screaming. Wailing. Yelling. Whispering. Why? Why couldn't they hear me? They were right next to me, in the car next to the one I was in. I didn't cry. I can't cry.
   I don't know how to cry, really. It never happens when  I need to. I cry over stupid things now, at the worst times. Tears pour down like rain because I'm tired and my brother finished the ice cream, or I get hit in the face with a beach ball. Why can't you hear me? I see you're smiling. 
   I can't smile. I can scream. That's the extent of the emotion I can show at this moment. I don't want to die, but self-harm isn't exactly the path I'm supposed to go down if I don't feel that way. I still cut myself, slicing my wrists or my legs with a razor, even scissors. A knife, once or twice.  
   I'm cold. That has a triple meaning. My heart is cold, my body's cold, my soul is more freezing than the Arctic. 
   For someone who doesn't want to die, it's strange that I'm still into self-inflicted pain. I just want to stop the pain, though. I just want it to stop. The angst, the anger, the rage, the depression. 
   To be numb: Either use Xanax, the medication, and live in a rubber room for the rest of your life, or copy my strategy to living life: Put up a mask. Become half of who they want, and if that's not enough, block out their negativity with yours. 
   If you're not like me, you're not "suicidal"(which I think is a very dangerous generalization, because most of us don't want to die, we just want the pain to go away, and if hurting yourself is the only way to numb the pain, so be it.) I know that you still have worries, fears, anxieties, but you don't get it. Not exactly. and that's not your fault. You could dig yourself into a hole as deep as we have, but then you'll realize: It's kind of dark down here. 
   Just out of curiosity, which is very dangerous emotion for us if someone who "cares" about us, how many of you have cut before (have self-inflicted pain) one time or another?
   Everyone I know, they don't know me. They may know my name, they can know my age, perhaps they have an idea of my likes and dislikes, but that's not ME. They have been told (by myself) that I almost never get my hopes high about anything at all, but they don't believe me, although I'd never lie about something like that. That's probably almost the ONE true thing I've mentioned to them. 
   My brother has some notion that I've never liked or loved a guy, but he doesn't know how wrong he is. I asked him 'how do you know?' and he replied, 'I'm you're brother, I know these things.' Well, how on Earth does he 'know these things' when he doesn't listen to me AND I'm in love with his best friend? 
   My mom has it in her head that I don't have any friends. That's not true. I do have friends... I just don't like them as much as I'm expected to, or as much as they like me. If they like me at all. Which I'm not too sure about. 
   People always assume that I like things when I say I hate them, and they force me to do them. Well, I'm sorry. I just slit my wrists last night and they're still bleeding, so NO, I don't want to go to basketball practice! If I don't hate something as much as I think that I will, I automatically love it and want to do it everyday for the rest of my godforsaken life, according to them. But so far, this isn't even a reason to cut yourself. I haven't told you about the dark cloud that's always thunderstorming over my life yet. 
  My dad. 
   My dad hates me, and I'm not talking "Go to your room, young lady," for no apparent reason, I'm talking he goes out of his way to make me miserable. My dad has mentioned that I am going to rot in hell forever, I'm d*mning myself, that I hate him, that he can't love me, when I break his heart everyday (because I'm not good enough), that I'm evil, following Satan, and my mother is a witch. Apparently, everyday I murder him, and I can't possibly know what pain is, because I'm the one hurting him. Well, I'm sorry you didn't get a very good look at my arms. Would you like to look closer? I'm not allowed to call him "Dad" because he doesn't want to be my father (I agree, I don't think he should be). I'm a liar because I don't agree with him. He says he loved the "old me" but the "new me" isn't worth ****. 
   I guess I changed dramatically when I was six years old, because that's when I moved away from his abusive house. When I was six, according to him, I was beautiful, kind, compassionate, lovely, polite, perfect 'daddy-loving' angel, but I'm nothing like that anymore. Wow, thank you, daddy. (I wonder why I changed)? Now, I'm too sarcastic (Can't argue with that, Pop) and I'm rude and I'm turning into a monster. Why thank you. That was my life's goal. *bows*
   He also says that if it was up to him, and this country isn't Christian, I'd be killed for disobeying my father, according to the Bible. Glad you'd like to see me dead.
  He says he knows what God thinks, and he's so in touch with Him the way that I could never be, and that I'm worse than my brother sometimes and I'm so stubborn. But with my life, stubborn is what you have to be. I'm screaming, but you can't hear me. I'm dreaming about everything but it turns out to be only nightmares. 
   Figures it would be. 
   They say I think I'm so perfect, but they couldn't have missed the bull's eye any farther. I'm in touch with my faults the most that I can be. I know I'm fat, because that's all my mom tells me that all the time. I know my hair is stupid and ugly, because that's all they mention at school. I've been told that I don't take care of my skin and my hair and that's why they're so disgusting. They say my fingernails are like claws, and next they mention biting your nails is a bad habit. Well, I wonder why I'm a nervous wreck. I wear disgusting clothes. I shouldn't wear anything too prude or loose or anything with a V-neck too low. My shorts are too short, or they just look bad on me, or weird, or stupid, or they're just too dirty. My shirt is either see-through or too old or too new or uncomfortable. My eyes are plain. My cheeks and nose are either covered in zits or eczema or slightly tilted the wrong way, according to my mother (but I never see this, why?). 
  To my mom, I'm lazy. To my dad, I'm evil AND lazy. To my teachers, I don't put enough effort in my studies. To my health personnel, I'm lazy, and don't seem to get it. To my friends, I'm stupid, annoying, ugly, weird, strange, ignorant. And they're the NICE people at my snobby school. 

   After all of this, for the people who know me, should I say: It's not you, it's me or it's not me, it's you. You decide.