Everyone goes through some stuff in their life that they want to change.
Something that hurt them, someone who changed them, a situation that could have been avoided.
And we have to face the realization that we can't change any of it.
I wish I could write a letter to myself.
My past self.
I could tell her that the minds of teenagers get dark and scary.
I would inform her that razors should only be used to shave.
I would plead that she didn't let her insecurities stop her from reaching her goals.
I would enlighten her that no matter how much make-up, dieting, or personality changes she commits too; its better to change for yourself than turn into something your not for others.
I would encourage her to not think twice. STOP OVERTHINKING.
I would remind her that she is young and yes, death is unpredictable but so is your ability to reach your biggest dreams. Reach for your dreams.
Don't think of death as a dead line; great things take time.
Everyone makes mistakes.
I would tell her that one day she will have these unexplainable feelings for a girl. It will seem impossible, but do not give up on her.
I would warn her about the high school boys that will only use her, no matter how Christian they are.
Create friendships, get to know people before you give yourself away.
Let things take its course and you may be surprised where it takes you.
I would explain all of the great things that I have experienced, and inform her that the world can be bright.
I would remind her that her parents only want what is best for her, and they are more supportive than she thinks.
I would let her know that people will leave her, and it will be hard for awhile, but she will survive.
You will survive.

I am obsessed with my health. Not just simply my health, but my weight, and my eating habits, and my view on life and myself. I am so obsessed that it has now gotten to the point where it is all I think about, and it has become obvious to everyone around me.

I can tell you which lunch ladies at my school won't question your lunch choices, which teachers will let you sit in their classrooms during lunch because you don't want to be around anyone or food; I have memorized restaurant menus, and I can tell you the meals with the lowest amounts of calories. My photo gallery is full of screenshots of healthy, low calorie, low fat, no-sugar recipes that I intend to make when I choose. I follow 177 eating disorders blogs on Tumblr. One of them being my girlfriend, and I get notifications when all of them post anything new. I weigh myself everyday, I know what I am eating two days from now, I overexercise, and I can tell you how many calories are in the 6 200mg ibuprofen I take everyday before facing the world.

I have lost 20 lbs. That doesn't seem like something worth keeping to myself, but it is when you are a high school girl; it is when all girls think the same, and suddenly when they hear numbers, they want to be number 1; they want to be the lowest, to be the winner, to be the most miserable person.

I can tell you exactly what it feels like to be embarrassed of being in your own skin.

I love giving other people food because I want them to remember that food is good for them. I want them to feel as though being given food is a kind gesture, not a last resort.

I don't talk about my problems because I don't want my problems to become yours.
I don't want you to adopt my destructive habits and thoughts. The way I avoid questions and disguise bad situations.
I don't talk about the things I have had to experience, not because I don't want you to know those things about me, but because I know that they will change you. In some way. Maybe they will change the way you see me, the way you treat me, or maybe even the way you see the rest of the world and yourself.
I don't want to tell you every detail about my relations with men because I don't want you to fear them as well.
I don't want to tell you about the harassment and torture I endured throughout the years because I don't want to reveal the things that hurt me.
I don't want to tell you about my eating disorders and the way I think because I don't want to give you an instruction manual on ******* yourself.

I avoid becoming too personal with people because it makes me vulnerable. I do not favor being used.

I get irrationally angry when I see that my friends are going through the same problems as me. Maybe it is because I care about them, or it could be because I am jealous. I honestly don't know.

I feel like I am doing a lot and not enough at the same time, and I hate myself for it. I punish myself with restless nights of crying and bleeding, torture myself with challenges against successful people, push myself to the brink of pain and defeat because I know I am cable of being successful. So why do I not just do more?

Penises make me uncomfortable because they have only been used against me. Uncomfortable is not a strong enough word to explain the disgust that rises up my throat, the sickening feeling that tears at my stomach and lungs, the feeling of having to retract all of my limbs into my body, or at least as close as physically possible.

I can not stand the thought of having *** with a male, but does that make me a lesbian? Or does that just mean I am terrified of the possiblity of experiencing PTSD? If I think these flashbacks are bad enough, I don't want to experience anything more.

I only date guys that resembles the man that hurt me first.

When I am in a perfect relationship, I ruin it on purpose because I am scared of commitment.

I crave the things that hurt me, like razor blades, and chemicals that fill my lungs and poison my liver. Like a firm hand, a hot flame, a brick wall; I even crave the sounds of warning that my body gives when it is slowly dieing. The white lights, ears ringing, the light headed feeling when I stand up. I crave the black circles under my eyes, the transparency of my skin, the feeling of bones. I crave the blood pumping through my veins going 70 on a road with my eyes closed. I crave self destruction.

Is it love when I tense up every time he holds me?
Do I call it love when he is inches away from me and all I can think about is holding my breath because I would rather fail at making myself pass out than fail to admit that I do not love him?
I love how straight forward and confident he can be when he wants something enough, but does that mean I love him?
I love how intimidating and controlling he can be sometimes, but I'm not sure I would call that love.
What do I call it when he grabs my neck from behind and kisses me?
Is it love when he touches me, and I have to count down the seconds until I can breathe normally again?
Is it love when he talks about the future we could have, and I cringe?
Do I call it love when he makes me feel defeated and owned?; To feel as though you are obligated to marry someone?
He wants to call it love, but how can I when I picture someone else when we kiss to keep me from running away?
How can I call it love when all I want to do is rip out his heart because I believe he does not know how to use it?
I will not call this LOVE because it is DEFEAT and HOPELESSNESS

I will call this sick
And crazy
And psychotic
Because that is the ONLY explanation for me straining to make this work