Abnormality: Key to the Soul

Whenever people see my scars, or my tears, or actually see me doing something that is painful, the first thing that crosses their mind is, "She's crazy." Well, they are right. I am crazy. I have paranoid schizophrenia, I am bipolar, and I am not on medication. I have gone through a series of rough eating disorders, including overeating and bulimia. But through it all, few have noticed what really goes on inside my head. Yes, the voices make up a huge part of it. But what is really tormenting is the fact that no matter how hard I try, I always despise myself. I am always putting myself down: I am too fat, too ugly, my hair isn't long enough, my eyes aren't green enough. I always thought that everyone did that until the day I cut myself for the first time. At that very moment, as I was dragging the glass across my pure flesh, I realized that I was special. I didn't put myself down because of what I saw in magazines (though it did contribute). I put myself down because my whole life, that was what people had taught me to do. I wasn't pretty enough for my parents. I wasn't thin enough for my parents. I wasn't funny like the other kids at school. I didn't have as much money as all the other kids at school. I wasn't smart enough for my mom's parents, I wasn't artsy enough for my dad's parents. I couldn't write poetry to save my life, according to my godfather. I'm not complaining - they really weren't aware that they had that sort of effect on me. But they did. I don't blame them for anything - I love my family and friends dearly. But the thing is, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop screaming at myself to be perfect. And the more I screamed, the harder I tried. And the more I tried, the more I failed. And the more I failed, the more I cut. The eating disorders were rough. Nobody really noticed except for my friends. I gained weight, I lost it again. I lost weight, I gained it again. It just seemed like normal puberty. But I knew I had a problem. I depended on food to get through rough times. And after a while, I depended on exercise and vomit to get out the food that helped me through rough times. I needed help. I didn't get it until quite a while later, but once I had it, I didn't use it. I just dismissed it as another obstacle. My therapist was an evil villain out to stop me from dominating myself and making myself perfect. I wanted - I'm sorry, I WANT- to please anyone and everyone. I need acceptance. I have been told I have some kind of complex, but I don't know what it is. I just know that I have problems, and I don't know how to deal with them. I have been free from self mutilation for almost 3 months, but I still find myself being bad. I am still trying SO hard to please people. I am in gym class, and some days I will exercise after school so I can keep up with everyone else in class. I once pushed myself so hard that I almost passed out. But I couldn't help it - i need perfection. I want everyone to be happy with me, or else my life has no meaning. While writing this piece, I realized that really, there was nothing that went wrong in my life. I was born this way.1