If you talked to me, there would be nothing wrong. I would be happy and smart and funny and bright. You’d hear me talk of nerdy obsessions and passion for music and a dream for the future. I’d crack jokes about politics and you’d laugh. I might even tell a story about my family, a nice story about our stupid antics.
If you saw me, you’d see my short brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles. You’d make a comment about my Ramones shirt and compliment my three bracelets. I’d say, “My aunt made this, this is a prop from my play, and this is from a vintage shop.” You’d ask what I had written on the nails of my left hand. “Vive,” I’d reply. “French for Long Live.”
You wouldn’t hear me say that everything was wrong. That I hardly knew what happy was anymore; that I hid behind my brains to make up for a lack of… feeling. My good humor was nothing but self-deprecating sarcasm. The light I give off would be nothing but a reflection of those around me, those I could never be as good as. You’d never know my family was driving me absolutely batshit crazy. You’d never know that that was true; that I am probably insane. By talking to me, you’d never hear the voices in my head. You’d never hear them tell me I’m not smart enough, my jokes are stupid, and that I should just walk away from you because I’m really irritating and you don’t want to talk to me. The voices would keep going after I walk away. Why are you so strange? they say. “I don’t know,” I’d reply, probably out loud, but I don’t know anymore. Nobody cares enough to listen anymore; they’re all used to my strange yet “lovable” tendencies. I seem cute.
You wouldn’t see the hair I’ve torn out of my head. My eyes wouldn’t be red; I had pressed a cold spoon to them after throwing up lunch. You wouldn’t know that underneath my Ramones shirt I had “FAT” scrawled on my stomach in permanent marker. Backwards, of course, so I could read it in the mirror that hated me. My pretty little bracelets would cover up the pretty little scars on my wrists, but they smeared the blood of the newest one. You wouldn’t understand that “Long live” wasn’t just some hipster-ish fashion statement, that it was a command to get up and survive the day.
If you read my blog, you’d see nothing to be exceptionally alarmed about. But then again, appearances are deceiving.
Don’t judge a book by its cover.
My pages are falling out.