Dear Diary

You know...

I never really got why people would read stuff like this.

Why put yourself in threw the mental torture.

But...

Then I became numb. The words of hate no longer affect me.

Words of praise are like heroin.

I need them.

But when I try to convince myself, get up and do something worth praise I can't move.

I do my routine.

I get up.

I get dressed.

I smile and laugh like everyone else.

I go home thinking it's been a good day.

Then the numbers hits.

It's like I can't control anything.

My life is not mine.

I want to feel something.

I want to turn on the news and be disgusted.

'We're standing face to face with our own human race.'

I love that quote. Simply because it's true.

We're all human.

And yet we kill.

I want a world without war.

I want to be able to control my emotions.

I want my family to get along.

I want my siblings to care.

I want my sister to notice other people.

I want my brother to love me.

I want when my father yells to not cry.

I want to not cry even though I'm numb.

You know suicide. Cutting. All of these terrible things.

I remember reading stories about them in horror.

I would sob for days on end.

Now I don't even blink an eye.

I hate crying.

It always makes me feel as though I'm weak.

'Stop crying.' my father will say.

My sister rolls her eyes.

My brother doesn't care.

I hate the sudden bursts of emotions too.

They always come in a fight.

Words of praise make it go away. But I don't get them.

My family could care less.

More worried about other people than me...

I get it though.

They keep telling me it's puberty.

It'll pass.

I want to believe them...

I guess I want a lot of things.

Is it wrong to get angry?

Tears and anger seem to be the only thing anchoring me to the world.

But...

A light of hope.

Somewhere where I'm safe.

Somewhere warm.

It's not real.

But people understand there.

People think it's bad I rely so much on the praise of people I can't see.

I'm only a kid.

I'm not supposed to worry about suicide.

War.

Rape.

Or my own thoughts.

But there...

No one cares how old you are.

They don't care what you know and what you don't.

They care about your story.

They make me happy.

They make the numbness go away.

They know nothing about me.

And yet they show me, love.

They make the numbness go away.

And even though it's short-lived it helps.

It helps me from getting angry.

From getting sad.

They make me better.

They make me tolerant.

They make it so I listen.

They help me get better.

And yeah I still got a long way to go...

But I have a story.

And I have their love.

And that's all I need.

You make me... Me

I love you guys.

~ Childofapollo5