I am a murderer and this is my
confession.
First of all, I want you to know I
was not always this way. I was not always a murderer and a cold blooded person. I
was born and raised in a beautiful warm normal environment. My life was okay up
to the point that is was not anymore. I was taught to look at the positive
direction until there was nothing positive to look at, I was taught to never lose
hope until hope was the last thing to lose. I was taught to believe in God even
when nothing seems to be working out. I was taught that I had a destiny until I
realized I make my own destiny.
From the moment I was born, from
the moment I started to understand and comprehend the complexes of life, i was taught and reassured that I have a part
to play in this world. It doesn’t matter what that part is but it is important
for the world to be a better place. I was given hopes, I was given knowledge on
how I can perfectly play that part. But somewhere along the lines I lost my
family. Not that they were gone but they lost connection with me, they didn’t see
me or what I was going through.
Sometimes it felt like I was
drowning in an ocean, and every day that goes by I was sinking deeper and deeper in the ocean of loneliness and confusion and they did not notice. Even when I try to
tell them they would look me with confused faces wondering what I am struggling
over when they are all doing just fine not knowing that I was trying so hard to
keep my head above the water.
Then one day I fell in love with
a boy, he loved me or so I like to think, he became my source of comfort, he
was there for me, he understood me and listened to me. He was my only chance of
hope, my only chance at redemption until one day he decided he would not talk
to me anymore. At some point I knew that was going to happen because he was the
light and I was the dark... the two could never meet, I just didn’t know it was
going to be so soon. But now that it was here I could not shake off the feeling
that I was never enough for him, that no matter how hard I tried I just
could never be enough. I had imagined this pain several times but I was
wrong, this was more than I had ever imagined.
Then when the pain ended I became
empty. I didn’t know what to feel and I needed to feel something to know I was
alive, I began to cut myself, enthralled by what the razor could do. I am addicted to the pain and when it is not there I have to create it. I hurt
myself, sometimes I have no idea how deeply I do it, but without it my body feels
like a lonely temporary container that I happen to be borrowing.
I never tried to hurt anyone consciously,
but every time I stand naked in front of my mirror, the scars on my body remind
me of the demons i fought at 3 am when everyone was sleeping, the insecurities
and the lonely nights, the depressions and the feelings of rejections I couldn’t
contain, they also remind me how I have changed, how self centered and cruel I
have grown to be. I have become the kind of person who could use a lame excuse to
inflict pain on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal.
The jovial funny girl who used to
have lots of friends no longer exist, the girl who used to spend weekends in the library now spends it in the bathroom thinking of the way to make pain more painful, the girl who could not hurt a fly now
enjoys to inflict pain on herself and others, the brave girl I used to see in
the mirror is a distant memory that no longer exist.
Dear diary, am a murderer, I killed
the girl I used to be.
