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the glass

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I don’t remember how it started. All I know is where I am. It’s like a dream. You never know how it began but you know it must have begun somewhere. You simply didn’t materialized at the point in which you are. There must have been a beginning to it all. Life had become the dream. The nightmare the wakes me in the night. Not the silly ones I used to have but the crazy unrealistic one that haunted me throughout my childhood. Where a mummy and an alien lived in the neighbor’s house and were out to get my family and me. Where not even my own house was safe from the monsters but some place else was. There was a safe house. I just always woke before it was found. Unfortunately my mind had become the monsters. Tarring me from my family, friends, and sanity. However, none of this becomes apparent until I looked in the mirror holding that glass of salt and water. Tiring to tell myself this would fix things this would make me happy more alive. The thing that almost killed my mother. That tortures my sister into therapy. One of the two evils that have been in the back of my own mind since I was young. 10 or 11 even. Bulimia. Anorexia. They were there. I was there. I had been taught that these things were horrible that no one should ever try, ever think about. I knew what I had been told. I knew what I have seen. I didn’t know what my life would be like if they came into me. I didn’t know that the evils that had once been a thing of pure imaganation something that happened to lesser people. People who didn’t know any better. The sad truth is thought, that the ED’s were the second of two evils that had ever been an option for me. Death always seemed like a good escape. A memory I still hold to this day is of a little girl in a school uniform crying holding a knife to her chest thinking “Do it, Do it, Do it.” I’m very happy now that the little girl didn’t, couldn’t kill her self. The sad thing is the next time I can think of that little girl is two years latter. When she has a Curtin tied around her next on her tippy toes thinking, “Do it, Do it, Do it.” Crying her eyes out after a fight with her sister, but she can’t won’t, not like this. I’m even happier that this little girl didn’t do it. Now I'm not that little girl anymore. Now I'm not thinking what happens when I die. Now I just want to fix myself so I'm happy. Happy. A funny word considering the things people do to try and achieve it. A word that can tare the world apart for some. A word that walks hand and hand with sad. Simple words you’re told not to use after the 6th grade or so. Teachers say there to boring. Everyone knows happy or sad. The truth is that those words are too pure. Joy is an easier emotion to feel than pure happiness. But I’ve felt sorrow. And I’ve felt sad. Pure sadness. It isn’t pleasant. It’s distasteful. It tastes like the fist three sips I had of that glass. The glass I would have drank if I hadn’t looked in to the mirror and seem the little girl with the knife and the little girl with he Curtin staring at me and saying “don’t do it…we didn’t.” glug glug glug. The sound the sink made as I poured the glass out and went to cry a little. I was sad. About everything, but I know a way to make it better. And I don’t need that knife or that Curtin or the glass to “do it.”





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