My name is Ellie. I'm 19 and I'm in my second year at university.
I don't really know how I'd describe myself. It's so difficult to put that sort
of pain into mere words. No, hang on, don't leave. I'll have a go.
I share my birthday with Franz Kafka. Well, I would do if he'd been born on the same day as me. I consider this somewhat apt since I've always felt like I was damned from birth. I haven't written any novels though. Well, I started one once but I ran out of felts.
Sometimes I resent my parents for not giving me the attention I craved as a child. I would point this out, but my mum can never hear me over the Electrolux Carpetmaster.
I have several ways of coping with my eternal damnation, most of which involve me scratching my arm with my old school compass. Only with the pencil bit, though. I'm not mad. (Or maybe I am? Maybe we all are.) But anyway, I always feel better afterwards, especially when my mum notices the scratch-marks and asks if I'm okay. Well, mainly she says 'You've drawn on your arm in pencil again haven't you? Come on, give it here', but still. One day she'll realise.
I sometimes think I might be anorexic too but unfortunately I love purple Polos too much.
I've asked my doctor to prescribe me some anti-depressants so I can leave empty packets of them around my student res. My fellow students find them and ask me if I'm okay. I say yeah, whatever. Then they go away again, muttering 'twat'. Hmm. Maybe we're *all* twats?
Ah, look at all the lonely people. Where do they all belong?
I feel totally restricted and cocooned. I want to run wild. I want to live in a cave with a pack of wolves. I need to feel the wind flowing through my hair, the rough branches in my face and the cool earth beneath the soles of my feet. I'd run around naked were it not for the fact that I totally hate my body. I mean, just look at it. No, look. Here, I'll just take off my top.
I dream of being a singer songwriter like Tori Amos or somebody. I have a nice voice so I don't see why it shouldn't happen. I have all these lyrics swirling around inside me bursting to get out, but I can't seem to actually write any of them down. Maybe it's because I've been emotionally restrained all my life. Maybe it's because my own personal pain is too great to inflict on others, even in the form of song. Or maybe it's because I'm a Londoner.
Why won't the pain stop? Please God, tell me, why can't I just be normal?
On Saturday I'm going to buy the new Stereophonics album and listen to it three times.
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