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Description
"Dear Diary...."

I stopped, fingers resting on the keyboard, mind racing in the frantic search for the right words. My finger pressed down the erase key. Start anew:

"What can you hold on to, if the world around you seems to fall apart? ..."

Again my fingers came to a hold. Again the words disappeared from the screen just to be replaced by new ones.

"She ran... her vision blurred with the tears never cried and her throat sore from the screams that had never left her heart."

I closed the word document, and leaned back in my comfy chair. I just could not express the feelings inside my heart or the thoughts filling my head. I was exhausted, my mind tired of the struggle to make sense of myself and trying to press so many things into so little words.

What are words anyway? We always try to put everything into words. They are the most important tool known to men, but yet they seem so volatile. They are composed of 26 letters, assembled in a seemingly random order to create objects of great power that can delight, comfort, hurt, condemn and even kill. If you fail to put something into words it is not important to most people. If you cannot explain what is wrong and express it in the right way, nothing's really wrong and you're told that you're "overreacting" or "just imagining things". But is your sorrow less painful, just because you cannot express it in the linguistically correct way?
It is not. It is just as painful. The only difference is that you are totally alone with it, because you cannot share it with others- who will understand what you cannot explain? I had tried showing my emotions to others on various occasions and in many different forms, but I had failed every single time. Not once had I managed to squeeze the inside of my head into anything that would make it understandable for others. So when I told them I wasn't okay, they accused me of lying, over-exaggerating and self-pity. But how can you defend yourself, if you still cannot prove them wrong, as you cannot tell them what's on your mind?

I rolled my left sleeve up and lightly touched the scars. It calmed me down to see the white and red lines criss-crossing my arm. Since I started cutting, arms are the most intimate part of the body to me. Every time I saw someone rolling their sleeves up or taking their jumper off I felt the urge to shout at them "Don't do it! They will see your scars!" and every time I am reminded that there are no scars they have to hide. Their arms are smooth and pure. No blade ever touched the skin. So innocent. So painful for me to watch. When I heard a noise I quickly pulled down the sleeve and washed the lonely tear off my cheek.
I put my notebook down and- suddenly restless- went downstairs. My mother was in the kitchen packing her shopping away. I smiled my perfectly practised smile at her and she looked at me, trying to figure out if the smile was real or fake. Since she knew about my problems she walked around me as if I was an eggshell right in front of her feet. It really annoyed me and it was most troublesome. She didn't believe my lies anymore- and sometimes she didn't believe the truth. But most of the time she was sensitive enough not to talk about it. I helped her unpack, while I chatted to her in a light, happy-teeny kind of way. It took my mind off my sorrow for a bit. Pretending to be alright keeps you busy, and if you're busy you cannot dwell on your emotions.

Description
"Dear Diary...."

I stopped, fingers resting on the keyboard, mind racing in the frantic search for the right words. My finger pressed down the erase key. Start anew:

"What can you hold on to, if the world around you seems to fall apart? ..."

Again my fingers came to a hold. Again the words disappeared from the screen just to be replaced by new ones.

"She ran... her vision blurred with the tears never cried and her throat sore from the screams that had never left her heart."

I closed the word document, and leaned back in my comfy chair. I just could not express the feelings inside my heart or the thoughts filling my head. I was exhausted, my mind tired of the struggle to make sense of myself and trying to press so many things into so little words.

What are words anyway? We always try to put everything into words. They are the most important tool known to men, but yet they seem so volatile. They are composed of 26 letters, assembled in a seemingly random order to create objects of great power that can delight, comfort, hurt, condemn and even kill. If you fail to put something into words it is not important to most people. If you cannot explain what is wrong and express it in the right way, nothing's really wrong and you're told that you're "overreacting" or "just imagining things". But is your sorrow less painful, just because you cannot express it in the linguistically correct way?
It is not. It is just as painful. The only difference is that you are totally alone with it, because you cannot share it with others- who will understand what you cannot explain? I had tried showing my emotions to others on various occasions and in many different forms, but I had failed every single time. Not once had I managed to squeeze the inside of my head into anything that would make it understandable for others. So when I told them I wasn't okay, they accused me of lying, over-exaggerating and self-pity. But how can you defend yourself, if you still cannot prove them wrong, as you cannot tell them what's on your mind?

I rolled my left sleeve up and lightly touched the scars. It calmed me down to see the white and red lines criss-crossing my arm. Since I started cutting, arms are the most intimate part of the body to me. Every time I saw someone rolling their sleeves up or taking their jumper off I felt the urge to shout at them "Don't do it! They will see your scars!" and every time I am reminded that there are no scars they have to hide. Their arms are smooth and pure. No blade ever touched the skin. So innocent. So painful for me to watch. When I heard a noise I quickly pulled down the sleeve and washed the lonely tear off my cheek.
I put my notebook down and- suddenly restless- went downstairs. My mother was in the kitchen packing her shopping away. I smiled my perfectly practised smile at her and she looked at me, trying to figure out if the smile was real or fake. Since she knew about my problems she walked around me as if I was an eggshell right in front of her feet. It really annoyed me and it was most troublesome. She didn't believe my lies anymore- and sometimes she didn't believe the truth. But most of the time she was sensitive enough not to talk about it. I helped her unpack, while I chatted to her in a light, happy-teeny kind of way. It took my mind off my sorrow for a bit. Pretending to be alright keeps you busy, and if you're busy you cannot dwell on your emotions.