This is a journal entry from a month ago.

MIXTURE

I went too far. I’m caught between feeling like my problems are little blips on the radar to feeling like World War IV is underway inside me; between feeling like this matters and caring less. I almost woke Mom up last night, wanting to cry about how I was scared of what I might inflict on my own body, in my own temple. Shame silenced me. Who was I, with a stomach too full of tofu and broccoli, blessed with friends, opportunities and an optimistic future, to cry? To want to be comforted, needed? I feel stupid. And in all honesty, it’s a motivator. I want to starve myself long enough, cut myself deep enough, and hate myself enough to deserve to let go. I want to be hospitalized, not for attention, but to be taken away from it all and finally, FINALLY be understood. Then I wouldn’t have to hide the darkness, I wouldn’t have to share my struggle in secret only to be completely misunderstood, or worse, feared. I’d lose her though; the sunny, smiley Sarah most people think is there all the time. I don’t want to lose myself in one identity; I don’t want the “everything’s always fine” persona, but I am not a suicidal freak. Labels labels labels: bulimic, cutter, depressed. I am all of these, but none of them are me. A square can be a rectangle, but a rectangle can’t be a square. I am happy, in love with life, and okay: but not all the time. I am quiet and loud, alone and surrounded, okay and not okay, crazy and sane, hurting and alive- sometimes I am a mixture of everything, often I am not here not there but standing in between, trying to see while tying a ribbon of cloth over my eyes.

I went too far.