Liz, yo (oulan) wrote,
Liz, yo
oulan

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This is going to be touchy

Warning: There are only two real life issues that make me hate being the same species as the people involved with them. Cutting. Eating Disorders. I am very mean when it comes to discussing either one. If you cut yourself and get all sensitive and dramatic about it, I seriously, seriously suggest you not read this entry. If you read it and get offended, you did it to yourself. Take it outside.

And if you feel you need to comment about how close-minded I am, don't. In fact, go fuck yourself.

And, yes, this is directed at one person in particular, but if you find similarities in your own behavior, take it to heart.

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Seriously, do I look like a god-damned therapist? I don't mind hearing about your problems, but there isn't a whole lot I can fucking do over the internet. Don't get pissed at me when all I can do is say "That sucks. I'm sorry." I don't have experience in your fucking problems. My father has never touched me in the wrong way. In fact, my relationship with my father is rock solid. My teachers never got on my ass about work I didn't turn in... because I turned it in. Yes, my mother is crazy, but she never tried to stab me in the face with a knife. One time she did beat me over the head with a roll of wallpaper while she was drunk but... you know... that was probably my fault anyway. I have never thought I was so horribly fat that I needed to throw up everything I ate or plan to eat. I only have three cut scars on my body: one is a split scar from when my brother threw a cup at me, a nine inch long surgery scar on my stomach and a razer slice on my forearm. Yes, that one was me. Ok, and maybe I have various leftovers from deep cat scratches.

These are issues I can not help you with. If you cut yourself, that's your fucking problem, not mine. If you are so pathetic that you can't find a more creative or productive way to deal with your over-dramatic, emo life... then don't talk to me about it. If I'm talking to you every day, that means I like being your friend, but don't fucking tell me about how much you bled from self-inflicted wounds. It's not that it makes me sick. No way. It's just that I think cutters are pathetic. You are pathetic. And yes, you need help. If you "can't resist the urge to cut" then you need help. Seriously. And it's not that I don't want to help you. I do. But when you say you cut yourself, I just want to strangle you. Here's some help: Stop fucking cutting yourself. That'll get the doctors and your parents off your ass, alright? They'll stop nagging you about mutilating yourself. You'll stop feeling misunderstood. The relationship between you and your parents will get stronger. They'll take you out to Taco Bell. Everyone is happy. It's a huge circle of love. You give a little. They give a little. Taco Bell.

Of course, if that leads you to start throwing up your meals because you are "too fat"... than fucking oops. My bad. And if you get over cutting just to pick up an eating disorder... you know... fuck you and your pathetic emo life. I don't do drama. Not that kind, anyway.

And speaking of sad drama, the fact that your mother yells at you about being a dirty slut, even though you ARE a dirty slut, is not a depressing enough reason to cut yourself. There is no good reason to cut yourself, but if there was, that wouldn't be it. I tell you, you have no idea how depressing life can be.

You want a depressing life? My whole childhood up to the age of 12 was spent in deep poverty, sharing a small dwelling with four siblings (because the older two had already moved out) with a father that didn't work and a mother that couldn't because we were all so small, we couldn't take care of ourselves. I went to school every day in old, beat up clothes that we got at thrift stores, and since I was the oldest girl living at home I always had to deal with my mother's misery when I needed new clothes. My sisters just got whatever I grew out of, but I had to watch my mother cry every time she saw I was getting too big for my clothes. By the age of ten, I already had a deep understanding in regards to freezing at night, going without meals, and dealing with the tension of having to live with six other human beings in a cramped space. I loved my older brother, but he did some things to and around me that I'm not that proud of. Things I can't tell anyone about because I love my brother that much. And you know what he's doing now? He's gone blind because he's diabetic and didn't take care of himself. Back to my childhood. When my mother finally finished nursing school and we moved out here to the land of doctors, lawyers and dentists, I went through a few years of typical teen drama... doing drugs... setting dumpsters on fire regularly. Then I almost died. I spent many weeks in the hospital because my appendix ruptured and everyone thought I had a stomach flu so the rupture love just sat inside me for days. In case you aren't up to date on your appendix, when it ruptures, it releases a good amount of toxic gross into that area of the body. I had to get all that pumped out. Then, after three surgeries and a tube that hung out of my abdomen for weeks, I still had to get my appendix removed and they had to go in and seperate my intestines from each other because the toxins fused them together. Then they told me that the toxins had weakened my uterine walls so much that I would never be able to bear children. And now I have a long ugly scar down the front of my stomach, I can't eat sunflower seeds because they rip open my ass where they had to go in to pump out the toxins, and I can't eat certain foods because I can't digest them very well. After you've spent an hour with your IV drip, sitting on the john in a hospital and letting your abdomen pump out through a tear in your asshole, you come to me with tales of your sad life.

And that right there is why I don't talk to you fucking people about my problems. The most you'll get from me is my angst about Charlotte and Pat living here or even more angst about how a part of my body hurts because I sprained it or burned it or what have you. But you know what? Not cutting myself. That is not how you deal with a shitty life... if you even had a shitty life. Your mother making you do chores when you don't want to does not equal a shitty life. It sucks... but that's no reason to cut yourself.

You are pathetic. Get over it.

I am not a therapist. I will never be a therapist. I will always try to help you guys with problems, but there's not a whole lot I can do but listen. If you need to just... talk at someone... I will always be here, but keep needless drama for someone else.

On a side note, if you cut yourself for art purposes, you're cool. Don't worry about anything I said. You just keep doing your thing.

Ok, I'm done.
Tags: trufax, very personal
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