I wish you could read my mind.

You’d know how much I love singing alone in the car at the top of my lungs to songs that make me cry.

You’d know how much I don’t care for having friends.

You’d remember that my favorite color is

purple.

You’d know how much I hate having good memories, as I often wish I could go back in time and relive them.

And you’d know exactly how much I love you.

You go through your life a hopeless romantic, always going to sleep with the feeling of heartbreak. You hurt, but feeling pain is better than feeling numb, wouldn’t you say?

You can’t sleep now. You’ve thrown up your dinner, your stomach burns of rage, your heart beats heavily of sadness. You lay alone in the dark, wishing you could go back in time, and change your fate.

Tears streaming down your face, you eventually feel the pull of sleep as your eyes go dark. Pausing your nightmares until the morning, you start to dream.

Contrary to what you may see in my journals, I’m doing well. Anorexia and bulimia are not the most important parts of my life anymore. My dad passing was hard and will always hurt. I do have a terminal Illness I hide. I’ve been through hell and back in physical and mental pain For children I’ll never meet. I have been hurt by people I was supposed to trust. Easy to say I’ve been through a lot, we all have.

More importantly.. I laugh louder now, smile harder now. I’m eating normally, I take my medications, I talk to my family more, I am reading my favorite books again, and I am writing more often than I ever have.

That’s when you wonder, how do you go from being so broken to okay? You may not be fine. In fact, you’re certainly not fine. You’re doing okay, though. The question is “how?” We all want to know.

All you can think about are the things that have gone wrong over the past four years. All of the anger, pain, and torment. Have you ever thought maybe that’s it? You’re stronger now, you’re wiser, and you know what you want. You know who you are, or you know who you want to be.

Maybe we need pain, to shape us into our strongest selves.

I write from past experiences, heartbreaks, lessons, and friends. I write about my present life, and what I hope my future life holds.

I’m doing well, and I thank every person for wishing me well. Even though you think you don’t know me personally, you know me better than anyone else. Because you, prose, are my diary. I have an amazing support system here with me, and I get to add you all to my family. I love you already. Here’s to growth and our future selves.

Hugs Xx.

Pain, I’m in physical pain. It’s dark, I don’t know where I am. I see a silhouette of a tall man in the corner. I can see him grinning at me from the light of the moon outside. I don’t know this man, he’s wearing a hat.

I turn away to run from this Man, I don’t know why I’m running but I feel like I must get away from him. I try to run as fast as I can, but my strides are too slow. I look back and see him following me, I try to scream but no noise comes out.

There’s no one to save me, I don’t know why I’m running.

I find a bathroom, I try to hide. There is a stall I run inside. “Lock the door, so he can’t reach you” echoed from the sky.

I lock the door, but I’m far too late. This man, this stranger pushes the door in. He’s no longer wearing a hat.

I try to scream, my voice gone as if I never had one.

He hurt me.

I wake up in my bed shaking. It was just a dream. My hands are hurting. I look down to see my fingers closed into my palms. I release them and see blood stained marks in the shape of my nails. My jaw hurts from clenching, tears streaming down my face.

I’m safe, but I’m all too scared. The recurring nightmare has come back.

I’ll need to sleep with the light on again.

I can’t cry anymore.

It may be from the death of my father.

My brothers leaving to serve a country that is falling apart.

My terminal illness no one seems to comprehend.

They think I don’t cry because I’m strong, but my mind, my body, I’m numb.

I try to cry, I can’t. My lungs are filled with hatred.

Hatred towards my indecisiveness.

Hatred towards the men who have hurt me.

Hatred towards myself for knowing the feeling of hate.

I can’t cry anymore.

I need to cry again.

As I sat in the back of the cab, I couldn’t quite keep my thoughts in order. I began to wonder if this happens to anyone or even everyone. Not being able to concentrate on one specific thing. I had roughly five different conversations going on in my head. Some being “I wonder how dad is doing.” and, “I should have gotten the hot drink.” “I need to dye my hair”, and so on. One thing kept repeating itself in the back of my mind, though. I couldn’t seem to get rid of the soft voice saying “take the pills, Ophelia.” Sounding like my deceased mother.

“Take it. Use your coffee, take it.” I quickly shook my head and gazed out of the side window of the cab, desperately trying to take my mind off of the pills disintegrating in my left shaking hand.

It was a late Saturday evening, the nightlife just getting started. Couples laughing, friends pushing, people smiling... I wanted to kill them all.

Nobody likes taking a smile clean off someone’s face more than the next girl, but I need to refrain from amusing myself for a while. With that being said, I popped the pills in my mouth, closing my eyes and resting my head on the back seat.

With the voices in my head fading, and the music from the radio growing louder, “you win.” I whispered to the voice in my head. Maybe next time.