You know, they say it.
And I believe them.
They say to me, 'Poor Hermione.' And behind my back, 'There's something wrong with her.' And you know, I don't know whether to laugh, or to fucking cry.
'Cause the thing is, of course. Of course there's something fucking wrong with me. You can just look at me and tell. But I wonder, what is it that first catches your eye?
Is it my hips, which just happen to be round as a troll's finger? Or is it my fingers, which look like little stubbly's compared to yours? Or is it my calves, at least the size of your biceps? Or the fact that Nick has more color than me?
Or is it my belly pouch, or thighs, or nose, or my soulless eyes, or the nest they call my fucking hair?
Actually, can you tell me what's wrong with me, 'cause sometimes I can't seem to figure it out myself. Note the fucking sarcasm.
They don't understand me, they don't know why there's so much wrong with me. I mean, even I can't answer that question. I sit here, staring at the dirty mirror, hearing her in my head, my nails digging into my palms, and I feel sick.
I feel sick sitting here watching my self, 'cause I know there's something wrong with me, and I know that I'm not strong enough to hold back. She knows that I'm not strong enough, and she punishes me.
And knowing that they also know, knowing that they can hear me in here, and crying, it makes me sick. I know I'm worthless, I know I'm weak. The urge to fling myself against the wall is strong, to punish myself.
But Merlin knows I'm a coward. I don't deserve to be here, in the house that means courage. And she knows that I'm a coward, and she punishes me accordingly, she does it for me, out of love for me.
Staring at me, through the mirror, a look of disgust on her face, and I can feel it in my stomach. Churning and aching, begging for release. And I give in to her, purging myself of my sickness, hoping.
I'm hoping for redemption. Because it's all of it my fault, didn't you know. The looks they send my way, it's because of who I am, what I am. I am a disgrace. But I can't help it, I can't control myself. And I try to blame it on them, on my so called friends.
I rant and I rave, and I blame it all on them. And they look on with revulsion. But I can't control myself, my emotions, my sickness. Because I am sick, sickening and repulsive.
And I hate myself, and I hate her, for knowing, and I hate them, for staring. I hate this blood running down my arms, because it proves I don't have control.
Because I'm not good enough.
Okay, so I thought I might would write a bit more. Seeing as this kept me up all night, begging to be written. She's feeling it all, her disorder's. If you've ever done any research, most disorder's come in groups, not just in one's. I may add more later, make some sense. Depends on how I feel.