Miserably Ever After: See what you can infer from this.

(Dis)claimer: Yes, 'tis I, Butch Hartman, in disguise, and I totally own Danny Phantom! Not.

I can't remember how it started, or why. I don't really care. I just want it to end.

It started some time around the middle of January, that much I know. And it took a turn for the worst on March 19. I don't think I can ever forget that day, no matter how many years pass. It's been about eight months, and I still remember it, every detail vivid in my mind as if I were watching a video rather than remembering that day. The day I truly sinned.

Rolling over on my bed, I pull my arm out from under my stomach and stare at it torpidly. The cuts stare back, equally lethargic. Most of them are faded, having been done nearly four months ago. I roll onto my side and stretch out my leg. The three cuts from my latest snap glare at me so fiercely that I have to turn away, burned. I collapse on my back with an exhausted sigh. I still find it hard to believe that it came to this. Me, who so strongly opposed self mutilation and thought it the strangest and most useless thing a depressed person could do--

(Why, I had reasoned, Would someone want to do that when they are already in pain?)

I laughed mirthlessly at my naivety. Why, indeed. I understand completely now, being a cutter myself at this point. The only good thing about cutting is the agonizing pain it brings. Many people would find this shocking and masochist (I did, too, once), but I do it because that pain overpowers everything else, and gives me a few seconds of bliss where I can just forget about everything. All the internal pain--the guilt, the self-hatred, the disgust--simply ceases to exist in those few seconds. And then it comes back, until I carve another mark into my skin, which is why I can't stop, no matter how much I want to. It's become an addiction (ah, addiction--another subject I was so fiercely against when I knew absolutely nothing about it). It's unbelievable how hard and how many times I've tried to stop myself, only to have my lack of self control thrust itself in my face, and before I can even think, I'm on the bathroom floor again, razor in my shaking hands, watching as the blood runs from yet another wound. Pathetic.

There are other supposed "cutters" who have different views of it. Take Tucker, for instance. He proudly showed me two thin, shallow cuts on his wrist once. When I asked why he would do such a thing, he practically responded, "Because I'm emo and it's cool". I didn't say anything for the rest of my lunch period with him. I couldn't say anything. Oh sure, he had been "sad" that day too, but really, how sad and for how long? I was "sad" for three long fucking months before I lost control and resorted to that. And that emo excuse is bullshit. Being emo does not mean you're a cutter, and being a cutter does not mean you're emo. Try getting that through all the "emo cutters"'s thick skulls. Then there's my other friend, Sam. At least Sam admitted that she had been depressed when she cut herself, but she also used the famous "I did it because I'm emo" line, although she insisted that her cutting habit was mainly to relieve stress. I'm still infuriated with both of them, although not as much with Sam, especially since I cracked one fine autumn day and confessed to her, just like when I broke down and told my parents in late August. Thankfully, I only shed a few tears in front of Sam, though it was still embarrassing. I hadn't realized that it still affected me that much. Now, however, I find myself falling. This depression seems to be getting worse with every day that passes.

Yes, I am depressed--"severely depressed", according to several online tests I wasted my time with. Do you honestly think I'd cut myself for the sake of being "emo"? No, that's not me. However, I can't find any valid reason for being depressed. I just am. And that makes it even worse. Every time I think of people who have real problems and are in real pain, I am filled with immense guilt for being depressed. Why do I have to be so pathetic? But I try not to let it show. I may not be able to do anything right, but if there's one thing I'm good at, it's pretending. In the public eye, I am cheerful, energetic, and glad to be alive. It's when I'm alone in the darkness of my room that I take off my masks, and then I'm a weak, exhausted, pathetic excuse for a human. (I feel safer in the dark. But I'm not goth--that's Sam's thing!). I used to lower my defenses in front of Sam and let her see how truly messed up I am (she still hasn't seen me at my worst--when I'm practically insane), but I've decided not to burden her or anyone else with my stupid problems anymore. Now, whenever she asks if I am okay, I smile and nod and pretend as I always have.

Besides all this, there's the ever present threat of an eating disorder to try and fight off as well. There's no way around it: I'm fat. I know I sound like one of those irritating, weight-obsessed, self-absorbed high school bitches that you see in movies all the time, but it's true. I don't want to add bulimia or anorexia to my list of 'Why Danny Is Such A Pathetic Fucking Loser', but it's getting harder. Eating is where I have the least control. I tried to fast once (on the weekend, when nobody really knows whether I have eaten anything or not), but I completely lost control, and by noon I had eaten everything I could get my hands on. I tried to throw it all up afterwards, but it didn't work. Plus, I was afraid my parents would hear me gagging. I guess it would be easier to not eat at all, but damn it, I love food! Not being able to control myself when eating is just another one of the many reasons why I'm an utter disgrace to humanity.

It's times like these when I wonder what kind of person I'll end up being when I grow up, if I live that long at all. I'll probably die of a stress-induced heart attack or something by then. I will never kill myself, though. I may hate myself, but I love my family and best friends, and I could never do something like that to them, no matter what they do or say to me. I'm done hurting people, which is why I'll just keep on pretending that everything is okay, until the day I die. My life is a rose, and as the rose turns brown, I recolor it with the red of my blood.