I haven't read this in a year.

I try to get better. I swallow the pills, I answer the questions, I fight the thoughts. I find something in me to grin and laugh and inside I feel like I'm dying. I don't want to eat. I hate it. I eat 3 bites because you tell me to and all I want is to shove my fingers down my throat and make it go away. I tell you I'm hurting because I'm supposed to, because you told me I can, and all I get is dead air. I can't do anything with nothing. That is not helpful. You are not making things better. I decide to stop telling you. But I can't. I am hurting so badly I would tell anyone who asked me how I'm doing. But no one asks, no one cares about the answer. You don't care about the answer, but I keep telling you things you never asked for. I keep reaching out, opening up, and getting left hanging. I don't know why I rely on you so much. You shake my hand and the sight of my arm makes me want to slice at it. I want to stop talking to professionals, I want to stop taking horse pills, I want to be better. And somehow through it all I get worse and worse. I hide off a little, because I don't want to take the energy to do what you ask. They notice, but not in a good way, not in a sweet "i care about you" way. They glare. They scoff. They all talk, I know they talk, I know what they say. Somehow I stopped being a person and started being an enigma. I became their puzzle. I became their mystery and I'm sick of it. I want to be a girl. I want to be a friend. I want to be loved. No one knows or no one cares, I'm not quite sure. But the effect is the same. No one listens. No one asks. When I tell them they get mad, when I don't tell them they get sad. Just care. Just listen. Please help me. I can't be like her and I know she's so perfect and I don't get why he's so into her and it's really obnoxious. He tells me how pretty she is. He tells me how great what she wrote is. He never tells me I'm pretty, never tells me I'm good. I listen to him talk about this girl and that and he doesn't give a crap about me. I don't want him to want me. I don't want him to idolize me, I don't want him to like me. I just want to be loved. I just want to feel good enough. And all of these thoughts are so, typical, so common, that you are just rolling your eyes. I'm trying so hard not to destroy my arms and make myself puke and you don't care because you've heard it before. It's still real to me. It's still hard for me. I sometimes wonder if you'd care only if I was giving in, that's when it would become big, that's when it would be real. You try to teach me how to be good and how to avoid these things and yet only acknowledge pain when it's in your face.
And no one listens.
And no one knows.
And no one cares.
The only phrases I have lost their impact long ago from overuse.
So I just sit and I just hurt and I hope and I hate and I wait.