i scare myself sometimes.

was rooting through my room looking for my wellies.

didn't find them sadly, but i will tomorrow. i have to. :)

however i did find a notebook. the opening sentence says

"no dates; no point." so, yeah i dunno when i wrote it.

i don't really remember doing it, which is strange.

but i have always wrote, so its just some old rambles.

i think it could be from 5 years ago when someone very 

close to me passed away. and then a few months later

my friend took his own life. my "therapist" told me to write

to express myself back then, as i never accepted the deaths.

so anyway, i thought they'd be interesting to share.

remember, im most likely 14 in these notes. scary. :/.

no dates; no point.

if i were to date these writings i'd remember these horrific feelings all too vivid. i doubt i'd be able to handle that. i can barely handle it now. best just leave it as another night huddled up in my room, afraid of the outside world.

what do you call someone who is afraid of their past and afraid of their future? someone who doesn't want to fail but doesn't want to succeed in fear of change? nuts. thats what you can call me. fucking nuts.

however considering todays world and society i have every right to fear the future; but shouldn't i learn from the past? instead of revisiting it everytime i manage a smile or a weak laugh. i fear that i crave drama and that it will never stop.

i can't stand to just be happy. theres always something i can improve myself on, and i won't stop until my transformation into the perfect me is complete. but i've been sidetracked.

i've made excuses for my weight. there are no excuses; i need to lose it. its simple really. just stop being fat.

i see the girls in school and i don't think they see it like i do. they want to be thin for the simple fact of being beautiful. i, on the other hand, know that in someones eyes i am beautiful. but i want that feeling of finishing what i fucking started. back when i shouldn't of known the pain of hating yourself, i had begun. i was a child. 8 years of age. maybe before hand, but thats when it all started getting serious. i couldn't make it to the bathroom in fear of it not coming up fast enough. i'd puke on the floor and then clean it up. disgusting maybe, but i couldn't chance not getting it up.

i know the consequences. they don't scare me. i could debate for hours on why not to do it, but that won't stop me.

it sounds childish, but i've kept it quiet for all these years, and i'm smart enough to tell people what they want to hear.

i'll get there. perfection is only a number, and mines decreasing as we write. 

i don't hate myself;

i just can't stand the skin i'm living in.

theres plenty more. a whole book full.

how do i not remember writing this.

it feels like i've blocked out that year of my life.

i can barely remember anything.