I don't understand why people are ashamed of their stretch marks. I am proud of the lines that wrap around my **** and thighs. Stretch marks show growth, they show life, they show that you are human.
Do not be ashamed of your marks.
Stretch marks show that you have gone from a young child into a mature adult. They show that you have stretched and grown from a tiny body, and that you're finding new ways to fit into yourself. Stretch marks show that you have fought with your skin to feel safe and comfortable in the body you own.
Stretch marks are beautiful.
You know what's not beautiful? Telling someone that their skin makes them ugly. Telling someone that they should, "do something about that," because their stretch marks to you are a sign of ugliness.
Embrace your stretch marks!
Embrace the fact that you are not a child anymore, you are full grown!
Embrace the sight of lines that wrap around your curves and show that you are developed!
Embrace the people who embrace your stretch marks.

"I can feel you inside of me, flowing through my veins"
Her voice was quite when she talked to him.
"You are poison in my blood stream, but I am addicted
You are my drug, and I cannot go on without you changing the chemistry of my brain."*
She talked to him as if he were an object.
He had become her anti-dressant, and she his.

Sleeping is dangerous: You will dream of sunshine and happiness, but wake up to a dark cold room where you are reminded of why you went to sleep in the first place. It may seem like a safe-haven at first but eventually it becomes your only way of coping.
Words can be deceiving: You'll learn to stop trusting what people say, mainly because your mom lied to you 27 times about her drinking. You were only 6 when you learned that people lie.
Scars are not beautiful: Occasionally you'll pick up a razor and slide it across your skin, thinking, "this will make me a warrior." You'll watch as blood blossoms and blooms out of your skin. After a year or two you'll discover that you made a mistake and your legs will never be the same.
Medicine isn't magic: After two years of counseling your doctor might suggest to you xanex, and you'll think, "wow these really work." Maybe they'll continue to amaze you for a year, but eventually it'll wear off and you'll come to the conclusion that your "magic meds" were merely masking emotions that you can't get rid of.
People aren't always nice: Once you enter school and find your place, it'll become clear that everyone is hateful in some aspect of life. Kids will be mean and say awful things to you, things that make you realize at 11 years old that you are not "normal."
Crying is okay: Some days, maybe even everyday, you will break down and cry. It might be a few tears, or an entire waterfall. There is nothing wrong with that.

After four years of being diagnosed with depression I've learned that coping isn't easy, and that recovery takes more effort than just thinking, "well, I am trying."

To be completely honest, I don’t think I have control over my body anymore.
I think someone else has peeled back my skin, climbed inside of me, and is now walking around as if they are me.
I do not feel human.
I feel as though I am an exoskeleton; or rather skin filled with nothing but bones.
There is nothing to me anymore.
Or maybe there is, but I cannot reach far enough inside of myself to pull that girl back up into her own body.
My mind is blank, yet at the same time it is churning out a million thoughts a second and twisting each syllable into a new form of language that I can not understand.

To be completely honest, I don’t think anyone has control over their bodies anymore.
I rarely see the faces I saw in elementary school, because for some reason we've all become hollow shells of what we used to be.
Our souls are empty.
I've begun to notice that people stare down at phones instead of looking at other individuals; I think it’s because they don’t want to acknowledge the fact that they are not the only carcasses around.

I think as society has developed, we've become more depressed. Not necessarily by the fact that we can no longer see the happiness in the world, but maybe because we look for our happiness in the eyes of the “mentally insane”.
It’s becoming a cycle of, “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy.”
We all have the bodies of someone else inside of our skin and we cannot get them out.
We slice and cut, drown and suffocate, fill ourselves with drugs made by other empty human beings who are looking for a high to keep them happy.
I think we do these things because it’s the only way we know to get these intruders out.

At this day in age, we are experiencing an extreme identity crisis.
People do not know themselves anymore and in high school they blame their bad behaviors on, “experimenting, trying new things, and attempting to ‘find themselves’”.
In reality though, there is no one to find.

From the day you are born you are given a name that may not (may never) be your name.
You have been placed into a family that may not (may never) be your family.
You are forced into schools where you may not (may never) fit in.
Doctors shove pill capsules filled with chemicals down your throat that may not (may never) make you happy.

I had a bad thought.

Maybe I wasn't actually getting better or going anywhere positive in my life. Maybe I was on a downward spiral and I didn't realize until I had this thought.

"Don't be sad."

It wasn't simple anymore; being happy was almost like running a marathon without any practice beforehand.

I tried to stop thinking.

Maybe I'm literally tearing at the seams and for some reason I'm the only person who cannot see this.

Maybe the scars coating my right leg are a sign that things can't get better.

"Stop! You're breaking and I don't know how to fix you!"

*"I don't know how to fix me either! Its been four years and I'm thinking that I'm starting to disintegrate!"