Confession Time

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm typing this up on a Saturday night.

The typist came back from the computer lab with no results. The keyboards are jammed.The ink went dry days ago. And the words are stuck. I stole all the words and I have no intention of giving them up. You open and close your mouths and all that comes out is air.

 Like fish gasping for oxygen, flopping around on the deck. Hooked to the pole. Poor fools. #sorrynotsorry

Are you skimming this over? Are you reading this waiting for the big reveal? Or are you telling me that what I have to say is important? Are you validating my emotions like my therapist? The one who doesn't let me alone unless I commit to safety. Eff that.

Let me write you a love poem. But all the words I can think of would cut you like knives and I don't know if that's what you had in mind. And your cuts look too fresh to endure that kind of reopening. I'm not saying you're not strong, I'm just saying you're not strong enough yet. You have to tear the muscle fibers beefore they build up bigger.

Are you listening? Are you reading? Are you waiting to hear why the crazy bald girl had to go away? My hair has grown out, you know. It's almost two inches long. Like the average boy's. And I like it that way.

I tried to peel open my head, you know. Like an onion. #foodtalk The Mad Hatter told me the gears in my head are what need fixing, like a clock. Spread on more butter. Shmear on the jelly. You won't ever get better that way. We're all mad here. Technically this place is called a psych hospital. 

Someone gave me a paintbrush, and I didn't know what to do with it. I told them I wasn't creative and they quoted Van Gogh to me. Someone like that. Ended up with yellow stains on my sleeve and no paint on the paper. And I hate yellow.

Someone gave me a piece of paper. And a pencil. But the pencil didn't represent commitment like I thought it would. And the eraser overpowered my weak apologies.

All those days, those months, and I still haven't figured out how to say it. I tried to tell my eleven year old sister why I had to go away, and she asked me when I'd be back. I didn't know what to tell her. Why meal times were so strict. Why I cried when I had to eat the trailmix. Why I wasn't allowed to have shoelaces. Sharps. Glass containers. Why I couldn't go in my room by myself.

  

Here it is: We're both drowning in the Pacific. Maybe the Antarctic, but the cold would kill us first. I'm a weaker swimmer to begin with. I'm more vulnerable than you are, and I pretend like it's what I want.

Problem: I like drowning. I'm trying to breathe all this water through my lungs. Right now I'm dying, and I'm trying to figure out if I hate dying enough to choose to live instead.

I am in treatment for my eating disorder.  That's for you suckers who didn't read the whole thing.

Now the words are out and my hands are trying to grab them back half heartedly, but they cling to your clothing like campfire smoke. Reputation. Shame. A bad joke. 

I wanted to be real. Real like the media pretends to be.

I tried to pray to God, but I couldn't talk religion in the dining hall. 

The truth is I'm scared to see you all again.

No, I'm not just talking about this class. I'm talking about the school. Lone Peak. 

Scared I'm not going to measure up to that picture you hung up on the wall, to that picture you point to in the yearbook. Scared with all the layers peeled off, I'm not going to look as pretty as you thought. And this is a confession.

I'm scared I can only be this brave on the computer. Behind a pen name, even though you all know the girl behind the mask.

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm writing this up on a Saturday night.

PS Don't tell my therapist because I wasn't supposed to be social networking yet.