I don\'t believe the effort it takes for me to do things. I wake up and clean myself, inside and out. I feed my hungry body and dress it in dry clothes. Then I drag myself to school, cold and bothered, to fill my brain with delicious education. I complement the teacher\'s shirt and make a point of speaking up when talking with my friends at lunch.
I don\'t understand why I do the things I do. or why it feels like I\'m pulling a Mac truck behind me wherever I walk. Mum says it\'s genetics, grannie says it\'s my heart, doctors say it\'s stress and my dad says it\'s silly.
When it gets bad again I take a deep breath and cope. I paint, I read, I do my schoolwork. I cut, I punch myself, I tug out my hair.
Lately, I\'ve been looking at spirituality and religion with morbid curiosity and slight jealousy. I wish, so badly, to have something to cling to, something to believe in. Though, if I thought we were all in the waiting room for something better, I would\'ve left a long time ago.