Worthless.

A little diary entry.

I deserve nothing. I am worthless. I deserve nothing. I am worthless. I deserve nothing. I am worthless. I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

My mantra echoes inside my head but seems to emerge from my lips as nothing but a shaky, broken whisper.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

Idiot. Brat. Stupid cow. Dwarf. B***h. Child. Fat. Worthless.

 

I deserve nothing.

 

Names of what I expect to hear from her swirl in the air around me. I think I am broken. I could feel it, you know. The shreds of will power, the miniscule amounts of self-confidence. I could feel them leave me. So my shoulders had slumped and I had promised myself that I would not let her see what she had done, not to let the tears fall.

 

So I headed up to my room and I methodically, robotically undressed. I could bear these clothes on me. I do not deserve them.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

Finally, I let the tears fall. Will they wash me away? No.

 

I’m sitting naked on the floor, arms around my knees so tight that they wrap around to reach my ribs. Funny, I thought I was fat. I of course I am. Because that’s what she says.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

Weeping and whispering. Sobbing and saying. I hate myself. So much. And I can’t do this anymore. But I have to carry on. I know I’m too chicken to take my own life, however much I want to. Because I’m a coward.

 

I start to scratch. First my ribs, then my legs, then my arms. Maybe if I scratch, I’ll take away of this agony. Maybe, I’ll be worth something.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

It’s not enough, but when is anything I do myself ever enough? So I grab that pin on my desk.

 

It scratches for me. And it hurts. I like it.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

But I still can’t pierce my skin. I am a coward. Can I not even get this right?

 

There is a china pot in the corner of my room with a broken lid. The edges of the lid are sharp.

 

I dig the jagged edge into the flesh of my wrist and drag it slowly across. It still doesn’t break the skin but it’s much deeper. And it hurts. I like it.

 

I deserve nothing. I am worthless.

 

I can’t even get self harming right. I am stupid, fat, incompetent brat. She was right. Of course she was.

 

She’s my mother.

Author's Note

This is my personal experience