Who I Am.
You all think you know me. You’re wrong. Entirely mad if you think you’ve ever known me in the slightest bit. I am not who you think I am. And, so, maybe this will clear that up a bit for you.
I’d like to think I’m complicated or special in some way. But I’m not. Who I am is pretty straightforward. I am a girl. An insecure, bullied, depressed and melodramatic teenage girl. I am not strong. I’m weak and extremely pathetic. I hate myself, and other than a handful of people, I hate everyone else too.
I am the girl you bullied in elementary. I am the girl you pants’d in front of the boy she liked. I am the girl you called fat everyday just because you knew it made me cry. I am the girl you called just about every name in the book. I am the girl you, one day, will regret hurting. Because I will rise above everysingleone of you who hurt me. I can hold a grudge. The kind that lingers, always, in the back of my mind pushing me to be better than you ever will be. To be thin, successful, beautiful, and perfect. If I were to just let it go, you’d be getting away with hurting me and countless other boys and girls. You hurt me, and them, worse than even I can put into words. The worst thing you did though wasn’t calling names, and pushing us off our bikes, or even spreading rumours about us. You made us lose our faith in humanity. We lost that faith as children, and almost all of us were destroyed by it. Some of us were so destroyed, in fact, that we killed ourselves. Just to make it all stop.
My name is Ana. I am an awful human being. I loathe myself, as I have since I was 7 years. I am 15 now, homeschooling due to my own problems. I am a smoker. A drinker. A druggie. A cutter. A burner. A self-mutilator. A suicidal girl who just wants to forget the world. Most importantly, I am a writer, a painter, and entirely in love with all things music. I am a traumatized child. I hate men, if that gives you any idea as to the pain I endure daily. I’ve been abused. Physically, Emotionally, and Sexually. I’ve been in hospital. Twice.
These are a few things, however, that tend to make me as happy as a depressed and suicidal girl can get:
Lipstick. Fucking. Lists. Theatre. Alcohol. Winnie the Pooh. Harry Potter. The Mall. Caffeine. Candles. NCIS. Skins (U.K.). House. Nicotine. Books. Johnny Depp. My Mom. Love. PILLS. Dr. Suess. Sharpies. My Family. Smiles. Megan! Tim Burton. Calvin&Hobbes. Writing. Incense. Tea. Adderall. Vans. Kisses. Weed. Ballet. Gymnastics. British People. Quotes. Faery Tales. Music. Peter Pan. Audrey Hepburn. Sylvia Plath. Poetry. Bookstores. Long walks. Turrets. Singing. Lofts. Newspapers. Trampolines. Baths. Glasses. Regina Spektor. Skrillex. Helena Bonham Carter. Friends. WEIRD SHIT. Tumblr. Book Shoppes. Painting. Kissing. Horror films. Going to shows. Accents.