I was never supposed to be the girl who gave up. The girl who struggled. The girl who was trapped in cycles of self-destructive behaviours. I wasn’t expected to be the one to end up in hospital, to end up with scars, to go from underweight to overweight and back again.
I was expected, for 90% of my life, to be the “wild child”. I was the one with good grades who never made mistakes. I was the one who was good at everything, who was carefree and bubbly, and could only be improved by interrupting teachers less.
And then I became good at starving myself. And then at cutting. And then suicide.
In the immortal words of Sylvia Plath: “Dying is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well”.
These thoughts are just thoughts, but these thoughts are also my life, my constant battle, my minefield I must navigate daily.
You think you know me? Think again.
