Welcome

I'm sitting here, eating chocolate biscuits which I will shortly throw up again, and trying to think of a good way to start a blog. My identity must remain unknown, so I will not describe myself in too much detail. However, you need to be able to picture me. I'm a teenage girl, not fat not thin, with messy so-dark-brown-it's-nearly-black hair and brown eyes. I wear glasses, and my ears are pierced a few times. Like pretty much every stereotypical teenage girl, I think I'm hugely fat and abnormally hideous. Although I may have take my self disgust a bit further than is normal or sensible. I was diagnosed anorexic, though I think bulimarexic or just "fuckin' fat greedy bitch" is closer to the truth now that I've gained weight. I'm also diagnosed with a "depressive episode", which means I'm a right whiney cunt and this whole blog will be a tedious waste of time.

The title: This blog is named for my scars. I'm an unashamed self harmer, with hundreds of pink and white scars. Oh, and a grey one, a couple of purple ones and a brownish one, not to mention my cuts. I love them, as a recognition of the survival of my physical form. I have problems sometimes with accepting the fact that I have a physical form. Many days I believe I do not exist. Or am I a ghost? The concept of ghosts is currently obsessing me. Sanity. Because I don't believe in it at all.

I live in a small town, in the same house since I was a year old. I have both parents, and a brother two years younger than me. I was a quiet, clever kid, with a vivid imagination. I made best friends, but they always seemed to move away. Luckily now my best friends Lara and Marie live two roads and two towns away from me respectively. I never felt comfortable as myself. Like too many other people, I never felt like I belonged. Most of my childhood was spent playing at being somebody else, and somewhere along the line, I lost myself forever. I was never popular, often fell out with people, but usually there would be someone there for me to sit next to. And my mum sat with me when I cried myself to sleep. At nine, I cried with terror of the lonliness I knew was coming when my friends left. At eleven, the two most popular girls in my class were bullying me. At seventeen, drowning in utter disgust at my newly fat-covered body. My mum and my friends keep me here, although sometimes it's a close call.